

^Uf V 

<^cfyi.,^Af ^Ti. 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




HI 




What are you reading, my dears'!" said the gentle 
voice of their mother. — p. 12. 



SmS OF THE TOIGUE ; 



OK, 



TEUTH IS EVERT THIAtg. 



-1 



The lip of truth shall he estahlished for ever." 
Proy. xii. 19. 




PHILADELPHIA: 
AMERICAN SUMAT-SCHOOL UNION, 

No. 816 CHESTNUT STREET. 
SEW YORK: No. 147 NASSAU ST BOSTON: No. 9 COENHILL. 

LOUISVILLE ; No. 103 FOURTH ST. 



.Ti 5 5 



Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1853, hy the 
AMERICAN S UNDA Y-SCRO OL UNION, 
in the Cleric's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of 
Pentifiylvania. 



No hmJcs are piihlished hy the American Sunday-school Union 
witJtout the sanction of the Committee of Publication, consisting of four- 
teen members, from the following denominations of Christians, viz. Bap' 
list, Methodist, Congregationalist, Episcopal. Presbyterian, Lutheran, and, 
Reformed Dutch. Not more than three of the members can he of the same 
denomination, and no book can he published to which any member of the 
Committee shall object. 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER 1. 

PAGE 

The Seed Sown 5 

CHAPTER II. 

The Teacher's Lesson I7 

CHAPTER III. 
The Secret 31 

CHAPTER IV. 
Trial of Principle 45 

CHAPTER V. 

The Mother's Death.— The Servant's Story 60 

CHAPTER VI. 
Family Sorrows 

CHAPTER VII. 
The Visit.— The Sad Sequel 88 



4 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTEU VIII. 

PAGE 

The Faithful Friend 100 

CHAPTER IX. 
Mary at Home 

CHAPTER X. 
Young Ladies' Gossip 

CHAPTER XI. 



Visit to the Banker. 



136 



CHAPTER XII. 
Charity Hopeth All Things 148 



TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



CHAPTER I. 

THE SEED SOWN. 

"Come, Miss Ellen! Come, Miss Annie! 
The dew is on the grass, and what would your 
mother say if she knew you were out so late ! 
Why will you loiter so, young ladies ? I tell 
you there are no fire-flies here. You may look 
till midnight. Oh dear ! Come on, pray. Your 
mother is out, that is one good thing ; and if 
you will only go to bed, like good girls, I will 
give you some supper, and we need say nothing 
about it." 

This was the entreaty of a nurse, who, with 
two little girls of eight and nine years of age, 
was proceeding in haste homeward, after a 
walk prolonged far beyond the hour limited 
by all prudent mothers for evening excursions. 

Ellen and Annie were in no humour to 
hurry, and persisted in looking for fire-flies. 



6 



TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



So they prolonged their walk, in spite of the 
real distress of their attendant, who had not 
been with them long, and who was very anxious 
not to lose the confidence of her employer thus 
early in her service. 

Mrs. Norris was a lady in feeble health, and 
not able to attend, as she would otherwise 
have thought right, to the care and education 
of her children. They had lately sustained a 
severe loss in the death of a faithful nurse, 
whose judicious management of the little ones 
had been of inestimable value to them. Her 
place was filled by a young woman who had 
received a good character from her last place, 
where she had lived for some years; and, 
havino; had but little experience in the choice 
of nursemaids, Mrs. ISTorris thought herself 
fortunate in supplying her great loss with so 
trustworthy a young person as Mary Bennett. 

Mary was certainly an active, industrious 
girl, good-tempered, and kind to the children. 
She might indeed have deserved the character 
her late mistress gave of her to Mrs. Norris, 
that of a most invaluable person, but — and 
there is a ^'but" to most characters — but for a 
deficiency of moral courage, which in times of 
temptation made her unwilling and afraid to 
speak the truth. 



THE SEED SOWN. 



7 



^^Now, I do say, Miss Ellen, this is very 
unkind in you," said poor Mary, who was by 
this time quite alarmed. " I have let you stop 
in the wood to oblige you, but to oblige me you 
won't hasten home, though you know how late 
it is, and how vexed your mother would be, if 
she knew of your being out in all this damp/' 

With some trouble and persuasion, the 
young ladies were at length diverted from 
their object ; and, having reached home about 
nine o'clock, commenced a long series of re- 
quests to Mary to indulge them with supper 
before sending them to bed. This was a diffi- 
culty; for Mrs. Norris had old servants who 
would be sure to disapprove (as indeed they 
had already done) of any innovations of the 
new nurse. 

^'But, Mary, you promised," said Annie, — 
<-^you did say, if we would come home at once 
we should have some supper. You know you 
promised us, Mary." 

So poor Mary was forced to go down into 
the kitchen, where the cook and Jane were 
seated at work, and was proceeding to the 
pantry for bread and butter, when the cook 
interposed : 

i^Now, Mary," said she, ^^you ought not to 
indulge those children so; you know very well 



8 



TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



you ought to have been home a good two hours 
back, and if you had they would not have 
wanted supper. Mistress does not like their 
eating a lot of bread and butter at bed-time, 
and I advise you not to give it to them." 

Poor Mary ! She had not calculated on all 
this trouble when she yielded to their first so- 
licitation to extend their evening walk, and 
she stood with the knife and plate in her hand, 
quite at a loss what to do. 

But I promised them, and I don't believe 
they will go to bed without. It is but for 
once, so pray do not say any thing about it, 
for I shall get into trouble, I see." 

The cook said no more ; but Jane and she 
shook their heads as Mary went out of the 
kitchen with the bread and butter. They were 
safe in bed at last ; but, like all over-excited, 
over-indulged children, they neither maintained 
happiness nor order, and the conclusion was a 
hearty fit of crying by Miss Annie, who de- 
clared that Mary twitched her in untying her 
frock. When they were in bed they could 
not, as usual, go to sleep. They were over- 
heated and tired ; and then Ellen said she was 
not quite comfortable, for she felt sure that 
her father and mother would be sorry for what 
they had done that night. 



THE SEED SOWN. 



9 



^^But Mary says," (Annie replied,) "that 
we must not tell father to-morrow, and it 
would make mother very unhappy when she 
comes home." 

That is the thing," said Ellen. Now 
our old nurse used to say, if we did wrong, 
^Tell mother;' Mary is always saying, 'Dont 
tell,' and I don't know what to think." 

Further than this their reflections did not 
go; for at length, thoroughly tired, they went 
to sleep, and did not awake till Mary stood by 
their bedside in the morning. Mary looked 
rather dull ; and it was any thing but a bright 
morning for the little girls, who were cross 
and discontented. Before they went down- 
stairs, Mary said — 

"Miss Ellen, dear, if you are wise you 
won't say any thing to your father about 
being out late." 

Ellen did not speak, but Annie said — 

"What harm was there in it, after all? I 
am sure I shall tell if I think of it." 

"Well, Miss Annie, please yourself; but 
all I have to say is, that you will get me into 
disgrace just because I was too kind to you;" 
and so saying, Mary wiped the tears from her 
eyes and left the room. The efl*ect of this con- 
duct on the mind of each little girl was bad. 



10 



TRUTH IS EVERY THINa. 



Ellen, a tender-hearted, affectionate crea- 
ture, was touched by Mary's distress. She 
would have shrunk less from telling the truth 
on her own account ; but for Mary, who was 
so kind, and for her mother's sake, who would 
be grieved and anxious, Ellen made up her 
mind to say nothing about it. Annie loved 
Mary, too, but it was not on her account that 
she resolved to be silent. She had no desire 
to give up those long walks, and the nice, se- 
cret supper in bed, and the fun and the charm 
of sitting up late during the coming summer 
evenings. So Annie made up her mind not to 
tell. Their father was already at breakfast, 
and with an open letter before him. He 
kissed his little girls, but looked grave and 
sad. Your mother is not any better, Ellen," 
he said. She will not be home this week, as 
I expected. Indeed, I have no doubt but that 
she will be absent some weeks longer. I hope 
you will be good girls, and do just as you know 
she would wish you to do were she here." 

Ellen's heart was full ; she blushed deeply, 
and even Annie looked uncomfortable. Their 
father w^ent on to say that the greatest cause 
of uneasiness with their mother was the fear 
lest her little children should suffer in her ab- 
sence, and grow careless and naughty. Ellen 



THE SEED SOWN. 



11 



blusliecl deeper still, and longed to tell her 
father all the truth ; but Mary's warnings and 
Mary's grief prevented her, and thus was that 
first step taken in the crooked path which 
leads to misery and sin. 

I have introduced Ellen and Annie to my 
readers in childhood, because I believe that it 
is to those early nursery lessons that we may 
often trace the characteristics of riper years. 
The rank and noisome weeds of falsehood and 
deceit, which choke the lovely plants of truth 
and candour, are thus sown in the spring-time 
of existence ; or, more correctly speaking, are 
suffered to spring up in a soil too friendly to 
their growth, even the human heart, which the 
word of God declares to be deceitful above 
all things and desjoerately iviched.'' 

A short time sufficed in these young children 
to efface many good and precious principles 
which an absent mother and a departed nurse 
had endeavoured to instil. The little girls 
were as orderly, and apparently as good as 
ever ; but a close observer might have con- 
trasted the open, ingenuous appearance of 
Ellen and Annie a few weeks previously, with 
the constrained and often uncomfortable man- 
ners which they now manifested in the pre- 
sence of their father or any visitors. 



12 



TRUTH IS EVERY THIXa. 



The first false step is often so yery slight as 
to be scarcely perceptible. Ellen and Annie 
little thought that the concealment of that 
evening walk from their father would have so 
powerful an influence on their after-lives as it 
proved to have. 

On the mother's returUj in improved health, 
she would have been puzzled to say in what 
respects her little girls were gone back. Their 
manners were tolerably good ; their lessons 
(which were as usual under the superintendence 
of a morning governess) were progressing 
well ; but they were changed. The mother, 
with a heart alive to every interest of these 
beloved ones, felt that they were changed. 

It was a quiet autumn afternoon when Ellen 
and Annie sat in the dim twilight, reading 
with intense interest "The Arabian Nights.'" 
They were reading so intently, that Avhen their 
mother's hand was placed upon each little 
shoulder, they started as though they were 
hurt. 

^^What are you reading, my dears ?*' said 
the gentle voice of their mother. 

Ellen blushed deeply, and Annie, the bolder 
of the two, said, Oh, a funny book, mother ; 
and^ now we have come to Aladdin and his 
lamp, it is beautiful !" 



THE SEED SOW^^-. 



13 



Their mother smiled at Annie's eager- 
ness. 

''But why, dear, if the book is so charming, 
do you come and sit here alone to read it. 
You used to come and read to me, Ellen, be- 
fore I went to Hastings. Will you not do so 
again ?" 

^^Oh yes, mother," said Ellen, «'but" 

'' But what ? You thought, perhaps, that I 
might not quite approve of the 'Arabian 
Nights!' Is that it?" 

"Yes, mother," said Annie. ''Mary bor- 
rowed it of somebody, and we saw it in Mary's 
room one day, and made her lend it to us ; but 
she said you would not like it, for the cook 
and Jane told her so, and they said it w^as a 
silly book, they knew, and full of foolish sto- 
ries, and things little children should know 
nothing about." 

"Pray, mother," said Ellen, earnestly, "do 
not be angry with Mary." 

"Oh, Annie, you should not have told 
mother that Mary lent it to us ; you know we 
promised not to tell." 

The mother was a judicious woman. She 
gently told her children, as she had told them 
often before, that they should suspect every 
thing as wrong which led them to concealment* 
2 



14 



TRUTH IS EVERY THINa. 



She reminded them that the wisest way would 
have been to ask their father, in her absence, 
if they had any doubt, whether they might 
read the Arabian Nights." 

''We did, mother," interrupted Annie, with 
her ingenuous face covered with blushes. 

'' And what did he say, Annie ?" 
He said that he did not wish us to read 
them at present, and certainly not alone,'" 

"And so, Annie, you follow his advice by 
coming up to the nursery with Ellen, and 
reading the very book he has forbidden, every 
day after dinner ! Is that right ?" 

Ellen and Annie were silent. 

" My dear children," continued their mother, 
'' one act of this kind may do much toward 
forming your characters hereafter. I do not 
now dwell on the nature of your secret em- 
ployment. The fact of your having deceived 
us is that which grieves me the most. I 
should be glad to believe that this is your 
first departure from truth, but I confess I fear 
the contrary. I am too much distressed to say 
more, but you know God has said ' lying lips 
do I hate.' You must seek for pardon from 
Him whose law you have broken." 

Sa saying, their mother left the room. Tears 
yiere in her eyes, and her distress was so great 



THE SEED SOWN. 



15 



that the children were deeply affected. They 
sat for a few minutes in silence. The ' Ara- 
bian Nights,' which a little while before had 
appeared such a treasure, had now slipped 
from their hands, and lay on the floor. Their 
mother had not been angry ^ but she had seemed 
so very, very unhappy. 

It was now many weeks since that evening 
walk which had led Ellen and Annie astray 
from the path of truth, but it appeared that 
both children recurred to it as they sat with 
their eyes fixed on the fire, for when Ellen said, 
Annie, do you remember our walk to Hol- 
lywood ?" 

Annie replied, Yes, that was what I was 
thinking of." 

How I wish, Annie, that we had told father 
then. Since that we have so often done wrong ; 
and oh, to think how unhappy we have made 
poor mother. There is Mary, too ! if she 
should be turned away I shall not wonder. 
Oh, dear, that mother should have come in ! 
Annie, don't you wish she had not ?" 

^^I am not quite sure," was the reply. 
''You see, Ellen, we have been wicked, and I 
am sure not nearly so happy as when we never 
wanted to hide any thing ; what should we hide 
for ? I wish the old times were herC; when we 



16 TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 

used to be so happy "with poor old nurse. I 
have a great mind, Ellen, to go and tell mother 
all the things we have done wrong since she 
left." 

That is all very well, Annie, and would be 
right if you only were to blame; but you have 
no right to tell of Mary, nor" 

^^Of you," said Annie. ^^Well, Ellen, I 
won't tell; but mind this, I won't have any 
more secrets with you — if they are not right 
secrets, I mean." 

In the mean time, Mi*s. Norris's reflections 
were very sad. With high principles, and a 
keen sense of the beauty and importance of 
truth, who can wonder at her depression, or at 
her mournful misgivings ? Her children were 
not truthful. They had learned to deceive. 
She was at a loss what to do, and it seemed to 
her as though a blight had fallen over her 
prospects, as though her cherished plants were 
already laid low; and instead of rejoicing over 
the rich fruit of her garden, she had to mourn 
that thorns and briers had sprung up there, 
and choked the seed which her loving hand had 
sown. And let no one say that the sorrow of 
the parent was needless. 



CHAPTER 11. 

THE teacher's LESSON. 

Years passed away. Ellen and Annie were 
reckoning on their return home from school for 
the midsummer holidays. They were still the 
same loving sisters as when we left them, — 
and yet not the same. In Ellen, the effects 
of a frequent departure from truth were more 
serious than in her open and less tender- 
hearted sister. A fearful and affectionate 
temperament is, perhaps, more exposed to 
danger from temptation to falsehood, than the 
more open and impetuous nature. At fifteen, 
Ellen was yet more afraid to do right, than at 
nine. She had so long cherished little habits 
of concealment, so long retreated from open- 
ness and candour, that she was habitually 
secret, even when there appeared no induce- 
ment to be so. 

She would have shrunk perhaps from telling 
a direct falsehood, but she was constantly 
equivocating. Her great desire for human 
approbation continually led her to considei^ 
2* 17 



18 TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



this as the grand motive for action. ^'What 
will they think f or What will they say ?" was 
ever and anon her inward inquiry ; and is it to 
he wondered at, that the child, who at nine 
years of age received lessons of concealment 
from a nm-se, should at fifteen, after much 
practice, be an unsatisfactory, unstable, and 
insincere character? 

The state of their mother's health had ren- 
dered it needful to place them at school soon 
after the discovery with which the last chapter 
concluded. Whatever may be said of the 
desirableness of a boarding-school education 
for girls, it is quite certain that the early re- 
moval of the little Norrises from the influence 
and sympathy of a judicious mother, was at- 
tended with consequences most unfriendly to 
their welfare in after-life. 

Ellen's character, under the fostering hand 
which few but a watchful mother could hold, 
might have become lovely. But let it not be 
supposed that in Ellen the want of truth was 
yet so apparent, as to make her an object of 
suspicion and dislike to her friends. Ellen 
Norris is a good, obliging little creature" — was 
the universal testimony of her school-fellows. 
"She is never angry nor ill-tempered." "A 
remarkably well-behaved, quiet, gentle girl 



THE teacher's LESSON". 



19 



Miss Norris is," was the remark of Miss 
Allen, — the principal of the establishment at 
Elm Lodge, at the conclusion of a half year 
spent by the girls at this finishing school. 
^^Very well-behaved, ma'am," was the reply 
of a new teacher, who, with the superior, was 
following the young ladies in their accustomed 
morning walk. 

"I don't think, Miss Fellowes," said Miss 
Allen, — with a scrutinizing look at the teacher, 
—i'l don't think Ellen Norris is any favourite 
of yours." 

We ought to have no favourites, you know," 
said Miss Fellowes, smiling. 

"Ah, yes, that is all very well, my dear," 
said the good-humoured governess; ^'but tell 
me now, what is it you do not like in Ellen 
Norris. Tell me now — candidly." 

«^Ah," replied Miss Fellowes, "now you 
have put it in that form, I confess that there 
is something in Ellen I do not like. I do not 
think that her's is an open, straightforward 
character." 

Miss Allen was for a moment excited to 
interest, but though a very kind school-mistress, 
and the last to wink at any great moral 
oblic[uity, she was no philosopher, and soon 
changed the subject. 



20 TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



^'Miss Fellowes, you must take pains with 
Mary Marshall,— she is not so well behaved as 
I could wish. She replied in a very rude 
manner to her music-master to-day, and in 
your hearing too. I am surprised you did not 
take the matter up. You really must not be 
too indulgent. You have not been with me 
long, and you must remember that at school 
the mode of dealing with young people must 
vary considerably from that in private families. 
You must be a little strict, my dear, or we 
cannot maintain proper order." 

So spake Miss Allen, her good-humoured 
face not indicating much disposition to rigour 
notwithstanding. 

Miss Fellowes, the new teacher, waiting for 
a pause, began : — 

''1 did not think Miss Marshall altogether 
wrong, ma'am, so that I could not correct her, 
especially before the other children; though I 
might perhaps have recommended her to be a 
little more polite in her way of answering her 
instructor. Mr. Sterne said that she played 
very badly, and that he did not believe she 
had practised at all ; and Mary, as far as I can 
recollect, said, 'No sir, that is quite true. I 
have not.' Was there any great harm in that^ 
Miss Allen? It was the truth." 



THE teacher's LESSON. 



21 



^^No, my dear, not if she said it politely; 
but I understand from Mr. Sterne, that when 
he pressed her to tell him the reason of such 
unusual carelessness, she said, 'Sir, I have 
told you the truth. I have not practised, and 
that is quite a sufficient reason, I think, for my 
playing badly. I cannot tell you why I have 
not practised.' 

'^Now I think it was extremely unlady- 
like and wrong in Miss Marshall, and I shall 
tell her so ; and as you appear so very fond of 
her, my dear, I hope you will recommend to 
her a line of conduct a little more gentle and 
becoming." 

Miss Fellowes promised to speak to Mary 
on the subject, and the walk being ended, 
they returned home to dinner. 

After dinner, the girls were permitted to 
spend the half hour between their meal and 
school-duties in relaxation and amusement. 
Miss Fellowes joined Mary, walking in the 
garden, for she was evidently out of spirits, and 
had, contrary to her custom, sought solitude. 

''Mary, dear," said Miss Fellowes, "I have 
come to ask you why you declined, and rather 
rudely too, to tell Mr. Sterne the reason for 
your great carelessness to-day." 

Mary coloured deeply. 



22 TEUTH IS EVERY THINa. 

^«Miss Fellowes, I told him the truth, and 
surely that is enough," said Mary. 

^'My dear Mary," replied her teacher affec- 
tionately, drawing her hand through her arm, 
''1 have lived in the world a few more years* 
than you, and although none can admire truth 
more than I do, nor appreciate the character 
of the truthful more sincerely, yet there is one 
thing to be remembered — we must not, in our 
admiration of truth, forget that it is possible 
to disfigure as well as to adorn it. Do you 
understand me?" 

"Not exactly, Miss Fellowes. If truth is 
worth any thing, I think it should appear at 
ALL times. I never care what is the conse- 
quence, or whom I offend. Speak the truth I 
must and will. I know I am disliked for it. 
The girls many of them dislike me, for I can- 
not pretend to admire what I do not, nor ap- 
pear pleased just because I am expected to do 
so. Why should I, Miss Fellowes ?" 

«^My dear, you have fallen into a very com- 
mon error, which, if you will be calm, I will 
point out to you, but it is near school-time 
now. Walk again with me in the garden after 
our lessons this evening, and I will tell you a 
story which shall illustrate my meaning. It 
is a true one, — a story of my two aunts." 



THE teacher's lessok. 23 



After school, Mary and her teacher resumed 
their walk in the garden, and Miss Fellowes 
began her story: — 

I have not much to tell, Mary, — nothing 
wonderful, — nothing but what is quite true. I 
had two aunts, both good, worthy women, and 
each in her way useful and desirous to do 
good ; but the one was much more successful 
in her efforts than the other. Both were 
women of high principle. Both loved and 
admired truth as much as you can do. Both 
were ready at all times and at any cost to 
speak the truth. They were truthful in word 
and in deed ; and for the example, as well as 
precept, of my younger aunt in particular, do 
I feel sincere gratitude. At my father's death, 
which happened when I was about ten years 
of age, I went to reside with my grand-mother 
and two aunts, who were at that time un- 
married. Aunt Jane was, from her earliest 
youth, what is commonly called a ^'plain- 
spoJcen' person. She would frequently make 
use of the same words, or nearly so, as a little 
friend of mine uses : I have no notion of con- 
cealing the truth. I always speak what I 
think," &c. She would often express her won- 
der that the world hated truth ; by which she 

/ 



24 



TRUTH IS EVERY THINO. 



meant, tliat she was surprised people should be 
aflfronted with her plain dealing with them. 

For instance, in a morning call, when asked 
if she admired the pattern of a new paper 
which the lady of the house had perhaps chosen 
with especial admiration, she would reply, ^^Oh 
dear no, I think it particularly ugly. I never 
admire green. There is a room at Feather's 
Hotel, in the next town, where we go some- 
times, with a paper just like that." And then 
aunt Jane would laugh and be somewhat dis- 
concerted, that the lady should not take the 
joke as she did. This is a trivial example. 
At other times, her speaking the truth so 
plainly was of rather more consequence. 

''Do you know any thing of the Misses 
Elliot, who have just come to live in the last 
house in this block?" inquired the clergyman, 
who, with his lady, was one evening at my 
grand-mother's. 

''Oh yes," aunt Jane replied, "very well. 
They lived formerly in the same town where 
we did." 

"Miss Elliot appears a very sensible and 
benevolent lady," continued the clergyman. 
"She has volunteered to superintend our new 
school. Miss Fellowes ; and I think she will be 
a very suitable person, don't you?" 



THE teacher's LESSON. 25 

'^^^0 sir," returned aunt Jane, <^bj no 
means, I should saj she tos the most unsuit- 
able person you could have fixed on. She is 
very fickle, and you will find that after a few 
•weeks she will give up the whole concern. I 
would have nothing to do with her." 

The clergyman's lady, who had been walking 
in the garden with aunt Fanny, now came in° 
and going up to her husband she said, ^^Miss 
Fanny and I have been talking about Miss 
Elliot, my dear. I find that Miss Fellowes 
knew her very well at Sydenham, and I have 
been asking Miss Fanny if she thinks the 
young lady would be suitable to take the 
superintendence of the school. She talks 
very encom^agingly about Miss Elliot, which I 
am very glad to hear." 

Indeed," said the clergyman, ^^so am I; 
but Miss Feliowes appears to think quite the 
contrary. What is your opinion. Miss Fanny?" 
Fanny modestly repeated her opinion of Miss 
Elliot, which was that she was an extremely 
energetic and useful young lady. She thought 
her very well fitted to manage the school, 
deeply interested in the education and amelio- 
ration of the poorer classes, and particularly 
calculated by disposition and temperament to 
direct others. 

3 



26 



TRUTH IS EVERY THi:N^a. 



She then paused, as though she would rather 
have said no more: "But, sir," she added, ^'I 
think you might very properly give her a little 
advice at the outset, not to be disheartened by 
the first difficulty. We found at Sydenham 
that she was perhaps a little too much given 
to impetuosity at first, and depression at last. 
But I do think, sir," aunt Fanny continued 
earnestly, ^'that Miss Elliot is a very desirable 
person for our secretary or superintendent, or 
indeed I would not say what I have said ; and 
I should be very sorry that you should form an 
opinion hastily of her character from my re- 
marks. She is so desirous of doing good, so 
conscientious, so amiable, and in all other re- 
spects so consistent, that one is only sorry she 
has not more perseverance ; but she . is youngs 
sir, and will improve, I am sure." 

Now you see, Mary, that both my aunts 
spoke THE TRUTH. Aunt Jane was quite cor- 
rect in saying that Miss Elliot lacked perse- 
verance, but how difi'erent an impression was 
made on the clergyman's mind by the truths 
of the two speakers ! Who shall say that the 
truth from Fanny's lips lost any of its beauty 
or purity, because charity was breathed with 
it, or that aunt Jane's straightforward and 
unqualified reply was pleasing in His sight, 



THE teacher's LESSON. 



27 



wlio saitli, ''Who art thou that judgest an- 
other?" 

It would be well if aunt Jane's truths had 
never given more pain, or done more harm, 
than those spoken at the clergyman's visit. I 
will give you but one other instance, and then 
we must return to the house, for it is late. 
We had company one evening, and among our 
visitors were two young girls, who were still 
in mourning for a brother, who in the midst 
of a very gay and dissipated career, was cut 
off by a rapid consumption. The time allowed 
him for preparation and repentance was short ; 
nor w^ere there, perhaps, many very satisfac- 
tory signs of a genuine change and true sor- 
row for the sins of his young life, — but still 
there were some. His career had been pecu- 
liarly sinful; but who that has lost beloved 
ones will not lay hold of the feeblest expression, 
the few half-uttered sentences of contrition on 
a dying bed, as a ground of hope? The sisters 
loved and the sisters hoped. They were young, 
and had been (prior to that affliction) entirely 
absorbed in the pursuits of fashionable life; 
but their brother's illness, and the conversa- 
tions he held with his pious mother on his 
death-bed, had deeply affected them, and they 



28 



TRUTH IS EVERT THIXG. 



had learned the folly of putting o£F religion to 
a dying day. 

The conversation of some of the visitors 
turned on the subject of the repentance of very 
wicked persons on their death-beds. My aunt, 
who was very dogmatical in the truths she laid 
down, begged leave to differ from a lady, who 
was expressing a hope that a poor girl whom 
she had just visited (a notoriously bad cha- 
racter) was prepared for the awful change that 
awaited her. 

I think nothing/' said my aunt, ^^of death- 
bed repentance. Tell me not, as old John Newton 
used to say, how a man died^ but how he lived,'' 

The sisters listened with beating hearts, 
for they had always held aunt Jane in great 
reverence, and thought her so very good, 
that the opinion she held had great weight. 
Aunt Jane continued, and as she spoke, aunt 
Fanny watched the countenances of the young 
ladies with an expression of earnest sympathy, 
which, had they been in a condition to observe, 
might almost have healed the wound which 
her sister's lips were inflicting on the broken 
spirits of the bereaved girls. At length the 
elder arose, and with irrepressible emotion 
hastened from the room; and when aunt Fanny 
followed her, she found that she had thrown 



THE teacher's LESSON. 



29 



herself on a couch in an adjoining apartment^ 
and was -peeping bitterly. 

It was in vain that Fanny, with all the 
truthfulness and tenderness of her nature com- 
bined, assured the weeper that her sister was 
incapable of intentionally wounding anyone; 
that, though feeling strongly on a subject she 
was apt to speak with severity, her heart was 
kind and her intentions good. Her voice of 
gentle sympathy at length soothed the violence 
of the young girl's grief, but it was with touch- 
ing agony that she lifted up her tearful and 
flushed face to Fanny, who was bending over 
her as she said, ^^Oh, Miss Fellowes, if death- 
bed repentance is in vain, how can we ever 
bear to think of our brother ao-ain!" 

o 

i'But we must now return to the house, my 
dear. Only tell me first, why you refused t'o 
answer Mr. Sterne's question to-day. Had 
you any reason for doing so? Had any of 
your school-fellows prevented your practising, 
by an unfair use of the piano?" Mary was 
silent, and Miss Fellowes continued: ^^Well, 
my dear, I will not press the question, but 
remember my story, and in future try to speak 
the truth eoiuteously and respectfully." 

The fact was that Ellen Xorris had been 



30 TRUTH IS EVERY THINa. 

very mucli behind-liand in her preparation for 
the music-lesson. She had risen earlier than 
usual to practise, and when it was time to 
leave the seat at the piano for Mary, she was 
so earnest in her entreaties to remain, that 
Mary consented, and had thus incurred blame 
which properly did not belong to her. 

Mary had quite relied on Ellen's explaining 
the cause of her backwardness to Mr. Sterne, 
and on seeing Ellen blush, and appear agitated 
at the time the question was asked, she re- 
solved to be silent on the subject; and, some- 
what irritated with Ellen, gave the reply which 
was properly reproved as ungracious and offen- 
sive. It was Ellen Norris that suffered most 
keenly, however ; and if those very timid peo- 
ple, who fear to tell the truth, could for once 
change places with the more courageous and 
candid, they would be rather astonished to see 
how small a proportion the worst sufferings of 
the truth-teller bear to the fearful agitation 
and nervous terrors to which their own hearts 
are a prey. There is nothing to be feared 
from truth. It is the true charm, and those 
who wear it are safer than they who bear the 
armour which subtlety and expediency frame. 
But let us never forget that we are to speak 
the truth in love." 



CHAPTEE III. 



THE SECRET. 

Where Annie Norris was, there was always 
an abundance of merriment and life. She 
was not, to be sure, quite so orderly and lady- 
like as Miss Allen thought becoming, but she 
was a merry, light-hearted girl, and, unlike 
Ellen, did not labour to conceal her delinquen- 
cies; or if she did, the attempt was usually 
unsuccessful. 

She was one of those thoughtless, rattling 
girls, whose tongues are continually leading 
them into disasters. She was careless of truth 
as she was careless of every thing; that is to 
say, she would take no particular pains to 
represent a thing literally. Her love of talk- 
ing was such, that she found it impossible to 
resist the temptation of adorning her stories 
with those little embellishments which a strict 
lover of truth would not fail to condemn and 
avoid. She saw more than others. Her hear- 
ing, to judge by her relation of incidents, was 
more acute than that of her companions. It 

31 



32 



TRUTH IS EVERY THINa. 



"VYas her custom to make use of extravagant 
expressions to convey her meaning. Her head- 
aches were always excruciating; her admira- 
tion ecstatic, and her adventures marvellous ; 
a love of which, by the way, not unfrequently 
leads young persons to exaggerate. 

The young ladies were very desirous of 
presenting Miss Allen with an affectionate 
acknowledgment of her kindness to them dur- 
ing the past half year, when most of them 
had been more or less indisposed, and some 
very seriously, with a prevailing epidemic. 
The elder girls were in confidential conversa- 
tion on the subject, one Saturday afternoon, 
about a fortnight before the holidays. By 
some means, Annie had gained admittance to 
the secret conclave, — for her school-fellows, 
not being very confident in her discretion, very 
often excluded her from their conferences when 
secrecy was any object. 

'i'NoWj Annie, be sure you don't tell," said 
one of the young ladies. ^^We want to keep 
it a secret from every one except Miss Fellowes. 
We must tell her, because she must go out with 
us to get the things, but it would be such a 
pity for Miss Allen to know. We want to 
surprise her by putting down the new carpet 
in her little sitting-room, and having the new 



THE SECRET. 



33 



cliair all in order "by the time she conies back 
from her brother's. She is going there for 
two days, on the twentieth ; and oh, it will be 
so charming to surprise her." 

Of course, I sha'n't tell," said Annie, vehe- 
mently. ^^You are so suspicious of me! I 
should not think of doing such a thing ; and I 
think, if I am expected to subscribe, it is but 
fair I should have my taste in the matter con- 
sulted." To this there was no answer, and 
Miss Fellowes coming into the school-room, 
the girls eagerly rushed to ask her advice in 
this important affair. 

The young ladies had made a collection 
among themselves and their friends. Mothers, 
grateful for the kindness of the governess, had 
gladly subscribed, and the amount was quite 
sufficient for a carpet to Miss Allen's private 
sitting-room, and an easy chair which she had 
been heard by one of the pupils to admire. 
The teacher and two or three of the elder 
girls (^among whom were Ellen and Annie 
Norris) went to choose the carpet, &c., one 
day when the school-shopping was done. Still 
Annie had resisted several temptations to talk 
about it before the younger children, or in the 
presence of a very loquacious servant-maid, who 
would gladly have retailed it to Miss Allen. 



34 



TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



There was an inquisitive young lady in Miss 
Allen's school, (a day boarder,) to whom it was 
a source of excessive mortification that she was 
not consulted in the many plans and schemes 
and little mysteries in which school-girls de- 
light. She was particularly anxious at this 
time to know what was the cause of the fre- 
quent consultations in the play-room, and what 
could be the reason of the sudden hush when- 
ever she entered the circle. In short, she 
determined to discover the secret; and for this 
purpose she attacked Annie Norris one day 
when she was walking in the garden, with the 
question — 

^'What is it that you girls are planning 
together, Annie?" 

^'Oh I must not tell you," Annie replied. 
You will know in time. It is to be kept quite 
a secret from Miss Allen." A secret, is it?" 
said Miss Barbara White. Then I expect it 
is something you are ashamed of." 

^^No, indeed," said Annie, ^^nothing of the 
sort; but I must not tell you^ for the girls all 
say that you are such a mischief-maker it would 
not be safe to trust you." This speech so an- 
noyed Barbara, that she instantly retaliated 
by saying that for her part she had heard 
much the same thing said of Miss Annie, and 



THE SECRET. 



35 



that slie slioiilcl be sorry if she had no more 
po^er of keeping a secret than Annie had. 
High iivords Tvere beginning to arise between 
the young ladies. In a short time a positive 
quarrel would have occurred, but for the sound 
of the dinner-bell, which, for the present, put 
a stop to the dispute. 

After dinner, Barbara sought out Annie, 
and renewed the subject in a more conciliatory 
manner than before. By degrees, the unprin- 
cipled girl induced her thoughtless companion 
to betray the confidence of her school-fellows ; 
and that, which had been a secret so carefully 
cherished, was now one no longer. 

Barbara, piqued at the want of confidence 
her school-fellows had in her, as well as from 
her real love of talking, spoke of the intended 
purchase in such a manner as to give an appear- 
ance of meanness on Miss Allen's part, in thus 
tacitly allowing so large a collection to be made 
among the young ladies' friends, in order to 
gratify her desire for articles of luxury and 
personal comfort. Many of the parents lis- 
tened to the report gravely, while others gave 
little heed to it. Barbara's mother being of 
the former class, and somewhat given to gos- 
siping, like her daughter, spoke of it to her 
friends, at an evening party, in such terms as 



36 



TRUTH IS EVERT THINGl. 



to leave a most unfavourable impression on the 
minds of her hearers. 

It was observed by the young ladies that 
Miss Allen's countenance wore an unusual 
expression of reserve and gloom, when, as 
they were rising from table, on the last Satur- 
day afternoon in the half year, she gravely 
requested them to remain a few minutes, while 
she mentioned a subject to them which had 
caused her great uneasiness. She then pro- 
ceeded to say that, having heard that morning, 
during a call, that the young ladies had made, 
or were about to make, a subscription, to pre- 
sent her with some acknowledgment of her care 
and nursing during their past illness, she had 
to request, as a personal favour, that they 
would abandon their intention, as it would be 
painful to her to refuse, but impossible to 
accept any such gift; and with these words 
Miss Allen withdrew, leaving the young ladies 
in a state of perturbation and disappointment 
not easy to conceive. 

Poor Annie! her situation was any thing 
but enviable. All eyes were directed to her, 
and she felt as though she were the object of 
universal suspicion. But for the presence of 
Miss .Fellowes, the young ladies would have 
attacked Annie with some severity. As it was, 



THE SECRET. 



87 



tliey contented themselves with whispers and 
signs, indicative of their indignation. Miss 
Fellowes, who was ignorant of the cause of 
these signs, took no notice of them, further 
than to express her sympathy with the dis- 
appointed group, and regret that their pleasant 
plan was thus frustrated. 

When they were left to themselves, however, 
Miss Marshall, in no very measured terms, 
began to reproach Annie for her tattling. '«It 
must have been you that told," said Mary^ 
indignantly. 

i^Why must it be me?" said Annie. ''I de- 
clare positively, I never told Miss Allen any 
thing about it. I never mentioned the subject 
to Miss Allen, nor — nor to any one. It is 
very hard that I am to be taxed vrith it, — very 
hard indeed." 

Poor Annie I Hard as it was, she was obliged 
to bear it. No one believed her; and when 
Miss Fellowes asked an interview with her 
alone, she felt as if her cup of mortification 
were full indeed. 

'^Annie, dear," said Miss Fellowes, '^is it 
true that you have been guilty of this breach 
of confidence? Is it possible that you have 
told that which your school-fellows were so 
anxious to keep secret?" 

4 



38 



TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



Annie, with many blushes, repeated her 
assurances, but there was something in Miss 
Fellowes' mild and steady glance, beneath 
which she quailed, and her tone was less posi- 
tive than at first. 

^'I never told Miss Allen, madam, I assure 
you," said Annie. 

As Miss Fellowes silently listened to her 
speech — ''I never told any one," she would 
have said, but there was still something in Miss 
Fellowes' eye which prevented her. ''My 
dear girl," said her teacher, solemnly, ''I 
have not called you to me alone, to tempt you 
to persevere in falsehood and deception. For- 
get that I am here. Think that One is present, 
who says in his word. Lying lii^s are an 
ahomination unto me. Could you, if he were 
to ask the question, answer him thus, my 
dear ?" Annie was silent, and Miss Fellowes 
continued : 

I do not want you to confess to me. I 
obIj wish to know the fact, that if you are 
innaceot I may disabuse the minds of your 
compamions. May I do so?" 

Annie was still silent. 

" Of what are you afraid, Annie ? Can the 
worst things your school-fellows may say of you 
be comparable with your present misery, if, as 



THE SECRET. 



39 



I fear, you are guilty? It is a strange thing 
that you should fear the opinion of a few young 
girls, when you are not afraid of the judgment 
of your God. If you have not told Miss Allen, 
say, whom did you tell?" 

Annie at length related the conversation 
with Barbara, and her mind being somewhat 
relieved by the confession, she asked Miss 
Feilowes to advise her how she might repair 
the error she had committed. 

"That," said Miss Feilowes, ^'is, I fear, 
impossible. Miss Allen has evidently heard 
too much to reconcile her to the idea of accept- 
ing the present. She has been told also, that 
your father was heard to remark that he could 
not admire the taste or feelings of a governess 
who could permit her pupils to tax their pa- 
rents for presents of this sort." 

^^Oh! Miss Feilowes," interrupted Annie, 
amy father never— I will tell you now how 
that came about. Miss Barbara was saying 
that she wondered if all the girls' parents con- 
tributed willingly. I said that father told me, 
when I asked him for the money, that he did 
not at all like the plan of making presents at 
the end of the half year, among girls who did 
not care for one another, and he hoped that 
this would not be the custom at our school. 



40 



TRUTH IS EVERY THINGS. 



He did not, lie said, grudge this money, but he 
thought it a pity to begin a system of present- 
giving either to pupils or governesses. This 
is what he said, Miss Fellowes. Oh how wicked 
in Barbara to repeat what I told her in confi- 
dence, and to exaggerate too!" 

Hush, Annie," said her teacher. ^'^Be mer- 
ciful to Barbara. You at least must not be 
severe. Is it not possible that you may have 
made some additions to your father's speech in 
relating it to Barbara." 

Annie confessed her fear that this might be 
the case, and with a full and humbled heart 
retired to her room, having received a severe 
lesson on the importance of watchfulness over 
the tongue, that unruly member which had 
thus betrayed her into more than one false- 
hood, and caused her such jdeep pain and 
humiliation. 

Here be it remarked, that a single falsehood 
is very rare; there is almost invariably a 
necessity to support one lie w^ith a second. 
The path of truth is safe, straight and easy; 
1>hat of deceit has so many windings and turn- 
ings that one deviation from uprightness may 
lead to a thousand others which we little antici- 
pated at the outset. Thus did poor Annie find 
that the ivay of transgressors is hard. It need 



THE SECRET. 



41 



scarcely be said that the cool and restrained 
manners of her companions, their suspicious 
and altered demeanour, and the obvious sense 
of injury that they manifested to the poor girl, 
were distressing aggravations of her grief. 

i'For such a little thing, — for such a trifle 
to be so treated!" said both Ellen and Annie. 
Alas ! they forgot, or they were blinded to the 
fact, that truth is respected and admired, even 
by those who value it not for its own sake : 
and that a false and deceitful person rarely 
owns a friend. 

The parting advice of Miss Fellowes to the 
two girls as they walked round the garden with 
her on the evening before their departure for 
home, may give some useful hints to those who 
do not set a watch over their lips, and are too 
apt to think that a lie, the intention of which 
is not criminal, cannot be so very heinous as 
some people imagine. 

"You are both of you," Miss Fellowes re- 
marked, careless of truth, and although in a 
different manner, each of your characters is 
affected by it. You, Ellen, are afraid of the 
truth. It is that fear which makes you heed- 
less of the disgrace or discomfort of a school- 
fellow. For instance, in the case when Miss 
Marshall incurred blame from her music-master, 
4^ 



42 



TRUTH IS EVERT THIXG. 



owing to your want of common honesty and 
justice. Only one among many proofs, dear 
Ellen, I regret to say, that although you have 
the fear of man before your eyes, which bring- 
eth a snare, you have but little of the fear of 
that God ivho desireth truth in the imvarcl 
2?arts. 

''You, Annie, are constantly led mto de- 
partures from truth from another cause. You 
are not so timid as Ellen. In relating an 
event, or answering the commonest question, 
you are rash and inconsiderate; but, as the 
past occurrence has proved, your indifference 
to truth is scarcely less mischievous than your 
sister's. I cannot tell you how anxious I am 
on your account, particularly as it appears yon 
are not likely to return to school, in conse- 
quence of the increased illness of your mother. 

''My dear girls, be afraid of nothing but of 
sin. There cannot be, for a young girl, a more 
deadly enemy with which to enter life, than 
that of a false tongue. Eear that above all. 
It will cloud all that is bright and lovely, and 
magnify all that is defective in your conduct. 
If you notice the characters of your school- 
fellows, you will see that those who are the 
most beloved, and certainly the most respected 
among them, are characterized by a love of 



THE SECRET. 



43 



truth, a single hearteclness and straightforward- 
ness which adorns their every word and act. 
If they do wrong, there is an ingenuousness in 
their acknowledgments, which often takes oS 
the edge of the sharpest reproofs. There is 
no one that does not feel that Mary Marshall, 
with all her impetuous temper, is worthy of the 
respect and affection of both her teacher and 
companions, by her unblemished candour and 
uprightness. 

^^But, after all, human approbation is a very 
poor and deficient motive for action. That 
alone can never make a person truthful, but 
you must be deeply convinced of the sin 
of falsehood in the sight of God, before you 
will truly repent of it and honestly forsake it. 
I cannot give you this sense, but I trust that 
you will not forget the last lesson I may ever 
have it in my power to give you." 

The reflections of Ellen and Annie on their 
pillow that night were sorrowful. The elder 
sister, with her characteristic sensitiveness to 
reproof and censure, lay long pondering Miss 
Fellowes' words, and recalled, though indis- 
tinctly and with mournful regret, the days of 
early childhood, when the first lesson of con- 
cealment had been received. As she wept, 
some feeble aspirations arose, some languid 



44 



TRUTH IS EVEPtY TIIIXO. 



resolutions were formed, but as yet she had no 
conception of the danger and the sinfulness of 
her way. No wonder, then, that the sun which 
awoke her and her light-hearted sister on the 
morning of their return home, should have 
dissipated those half-formed resolves, even as 
the morning cloud and the early dew pass 
away. 



CHAPTER IV. 



TRIAL OF PRINCIPLE. 

The return home and the pleasures of vaca- 
tion being over. Miss Allen's pupils re-assem- 
blecl with some additions to their number ; for the 
school was in high estimation, and deservedly 
so. It was not to be charged on Miss Allen that 
she vvas not able to foresee and prevent the little 
troubles and feuds into which the comnumity, 
within her walls, at times fell. Mary Marshall, 
whose education (to use a common expression) 
was not yet finished," returned for another 
half year ; and it was well for her that she did 
so. Miss Fellowes, whose interest in her pupils 
did not w^ax cold, was still her faithful friend, 
and both by counsel and example did much 
to improve her character, by bringing gospel 
truth to bear upon it and mould it. 

Mary had a sensible and judicious mother, 
but she was the eldest girl in a large family of 
sons, and had few female acc][uaintances at 
home. This gave a sort of roughness to her 
manners by no means winning. An event 

45 



46 



TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



•which took place at the commencement of the 
half year, caused a great sensation among the 
young ladies of Miss Allen's establishment; 
and as Mary Marshall was a principal actor in 
the scene, we will relate it, especially as it il- 
lustrates the importance of a strict adherence 
to truth in the smaller as well as in the greater 
affairs of life. 

The supper-bell had rung, and the girls, with 
one exception, were collected round the table. 
Miss Fellowes, who was presiding at the time, 
missed the eldest girl in the school, and imme- 
diately inquired of the young lady next to her 
in age if she knew any thing of the cause of her 
companion's absence. She replied in the nega- 
tive. Miss Fellowes inquired generally if any 
one knew where Miss Haynes was. After a 
silence of a minute, Mary Marshall replied — 
Yes, ma'am, I do." 

Will you go and call her, then, my dear? 
She could not have heard the bell." 
Mary hesitated. 

" Where is Miss Haynes, Mary?" 
She is in the garden, ma'am." 

^^In the garden! After dark, Mary? 
There is something wrong, I am sure. As I 
do not wish you to speak to your school-fel- 
low's disadvantage, go and call her, and I will 



TRIAL OF PRINCIPLE. 



47 



hear an account from her own lips. Go, my 
dear." 

Still Mary did not move, and her look at 
Miss Fellowes was so entreating that she 
almost regretted having given the command; 
but having done so, she seriously repeated it, 
and Mary was at length compelled to rise from 
her seat. 

The two girls were friends, not so much 
from similarity of character as from a concur- 
rence of circumstances. They had entered 
the school at the same time ; their progress 
and taste in study was equal; but their dis- 
positions differed widely. Emma Haynes was 
by no means an insincere character. Had 
she been so, she would have found no favour 
in Mary's eyes ; but her ideas of sincerity 
differed from those of her friend. 

Mary went very unwillingly into the garden, 
and interrupted a conversation between Emma 
and a man of very unprepossessing appearance, 
sitting under a tree in Miss Allen's garden. 
A similar conference had taken place in three 
previous instances, and Mary had been very 
uneasy about it. She knew it had ^'the ap- 
pearance of evil;" and if, as Emma assured 
her, there Avas no harm in what she did, Avhy 
thus turn an innocent thing into a guilty one ? 



48 



TRUTH IS EVERY THINa. 



She had spoken to this effect to Emma on 
the very night in question, ^yhen at the sound 
of the supper-bell Emma entreated Mary to 
leave her, and to be silent about her absence. 

"But, Emma, dear, if I am asked?" — said 
Mary. 

"Well, say I wish for no supper; that is 
true." 

"Yes, if I am asked whether you wish for 
supper, I will say so, but I shall not give 
that answer if I am asked where you are." 

" Oh dear, Mary, you are so over-scrupulous. 
Well, I would say any thing for you, dear." 

" And I would say any thing for you, Emma, 
but a lie, and that I would not say for myself." 
With this, she joined her companions, and the 
conversation then ensued which has already 
been related. 

Mary soon returned with Emma. Miss 
Eellowes took no notice of her, but allowed 
her to take her seat in silence; there were 
several very angry glances sent across the 
table to Mary Marshall, however, which she 
well understood. There was not a girl in the 
school who did not respect Marj^, but there 
were a few who feared her uncompromising 
fidelity; and it required some patience, and 
some degree of equanimity, to finish her sup- 



TRIAL OF PRINCIPLE. 



49 



per under the ordeal of glances and signs to 
which she was subjected. 

Let no one think lightly of the beauty and 
value of that principle which enables a single 
heart to stand without wavering, against the 
disapproval, expressed or implied, of a girls' 
school. Mary had nothing to fear, however, 
for she had nothing to hide ; and after a few 
moments the indignation she had felt subsided. 
She ate her bread and butter in peace with 
her school-fellows and with herself. 

Emma Haynes was a universal favourite. 
Her kindness and suavity of manners rendered 
her a far more popular girl than Mary. If a 
little one were in trouble, Emma was the kind 
and sympathizing friend. If any assistance 
were needed in lessons or in work, Emma was 
always at hand; and it was thought almost 
treasonable to speak ill of Emma, or to suppose 
that she could do wrong. However, she was 
not infallible; and after evening prayers were 
over, Miss Fellowes gently detained Mary and 
Emma, in order to ask for an explanation. 

Emma was silent, and Mary also. ^^Do 
you, then, refuse to explain yourself, Emma?" 
said Miss Fellowes. Emma was still silent, 
and Miss Fellowes not wishing to incur the 
responsibility of judging in Miss Allen's ab- 
5 



50 TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



sence, dismissed them for the night, but with a 
constraint in her manner which was especially 
felt by Mary. The silence enjoined in the 
chamber did not permit of the young ladies' 
comments ; but it was a hard task for Mary to 
meet the averted looks and to hear the scorn- 
ful whispers of her companions the next day. 

From the high favour in which Emma was 
held, there was not a girl who did not feel that 
Mary had acted a treacherous and unfriendly 
part, while Mary was not Y/ithout her doubts 
whether silence would not have been justifiable 
in this instance. The two young ladies were 
summoned to Miss Allen's sitting room imme- 
diately after breakfast. She questioned Emma 
first. For a long time it seemed as if she in- 
tended to persevere in silence ; at length, how- 
ever, she confessed that her reasons for re- 
maining out so late in the evening were as 
follows : — 

An old servant of her father's, who had 
been dismissed, owing to some suspicions which 
had rested on his character, (unjustlj^, as Emma 
believed,) had accidentally seen her at the cor- 
ner of the garden next to the main road, and 
had besought her intercession with her fathe 
to procure him a situation. He was, he said^ 
in deep distress. He was the father of several 



TRIAL OF PRINCIPLE. 



51 



children, and had hitherto borne a good cha- 
racter. The cause of his dismissal was a sus- 
pected connivance at some dishonest practices 
of his fellow-servants. He was now in poverty^ 
and his only petition was for a character, which 
would enable him to obtain an honest livelihood 
in service. This character Mr. Haynes would 
not give, and to Miss Emma poor John Ellis 
had accordingly betaken himself. He had 
been at work assisting a gardener for the last 
few days, in mending the fences of a neigh- 
bour's garden, and his first meeting with Emma 
was accidental. Emma told her tale simply, 
and it did not fail to interest both Miss Allen 
and Miss Eellowes. ^'But why," they natu- 
rally remarked, ^^why keep it a secret? It 
was not wrong to speak to the man in the first 
instance, but it was wrong to continue a clan- 
destine communication with him, and it implies 
a sense of guilt which it still remains for you 
to explain." 

Anxiously did her hearers wait for a reply. 
Emma hesitated, but Mary, (her better genius,) 
pressing her arm, earnestly said — 

^^Oh, dear Emma, tell all the truth. Do 
not leave any doubt. We feel so relieved now, 
do not disappoint us." 

Still Emma did not speak, and Miss Allen 



52 



TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



and Miss Tellowes looked so serious that 
Mary's earnestness increased. 

Pray tell us, Emma ; was it that you feared 
your father would be angry with you if he 
knew of your interview Avith, the man ? Per- 
haps I ought not/' said Mary, blushing at her 
own eagerness, ^^to suggest such a thing, but 
I so often tell Miss Fellowes the wrong and 
foolish things I do, that I cannot conceive 
why you should hide any thing from such a 
friend. Oh, dear Emma, do tell all the truth. 
Was it not so ?" 

Emma confessed that this was truly the 
reason for her desiring to keep her meeting 
with J ohn secret. 

^^How, then," said Miss Fellowes, ^^do you 
hope to serve him ?" 

^^I don't know," Emma replied. ^'I have 
given him relief from my own purse, and will 
do so as long as possible ; but I feel that I dare 
not speak to father about John. He was so 
very angry with him that I feel sure it would 
be useless." 

'^It seems to me scarcely probable," said 
Miss Fellowes, ^^that a man of your father's 
experience is mistaken in his estimate of an 
old servant's character. Is it not rather pre- 
sumptuous, Emma, in a young girl like you to 



TRIAL OF PRINCIPLE. 



53 



form a judgment and act upon it thus in direct 
opposition to his known wishes ? Do you know 
of any circumstances to extenuate John's 
guilt? — for surely you ought to have known 
something before you encouraged his visits." 

" Father never thought that John was guilty 
of dishonest acts. Miss Fellowes ; but he said 
he dismissed him because he knew of the dis- 
honesty of others, and was silent. John said 
if it were to do over again he could not act 
otherwise. He felt it would have been wrong 
in him to take away his fellow-servant's cha- 
racter. And oh ! Miss Fellowes, it does seem 
hard to me, that John, who has been a faithful 
servant to us so many years, should suffer be- 
cause others were dishonest." 

i'Well," said Miss Allen, ^'you have done 
wrong. Miss Haynes, and acted very indis- 
creetly. How extremely improper an appear- 
ance it must have presented to passers-by, to 
see one of my young ladies in such circum- 
stances. It is certainly a great indiscretion, 
and I cannot overlook it. You must retire 
every night, for the next week, immediately 
after lessons are over ; and I trust I shall 
have no cause to repent of so very lenient a 
sentence on you." So saying. Miss Allen dis- 
missed the girls. 

5^ 



54 



THUTH IS EVERY THI:N'G. 



But their faithful teacher, feeling how slight 
was the reference that had been made to the i-eal 
point of blame in Emma's character, followed 
her to her room, where Mary was trying to 
console her, and affectionately pointed*^ out to 
her how correct, although apparently severe, 
was her father's conduct to the man, and how 
deficient were her own views of the subject. 

^^Well," said Emma, drying her tears, (for 
she felt some indignation, if the truth must 
be told, against Mary, as the first cause of her 
disgrace,) I should have done just the same 
as John, right or wrong. I could not have 
told of another. I could have confessed my 
own faults; but as to interfering with other 
people's, my conscience would have been quite 
easy." 

" I am aware," replied Miss Fellowes, that 
your feeling is a very common one, but there 
is much mistake and extreme injustice in it. 
If you carry out that principle to its fullest 
extent, you would yourself see a servant pilfer 
without speaking to his master on the subject." 

^^I don't see that, Miss Eellowes. I am 
speaking of the conduct of fellow-servants to 
each other ; and to be the means of their loss 
of character, I think as John thinks, is a kind 
of dishonesty in itself. We have no right to 



TRIAL OF PEINCIPLE. 



55 



take away a person's character — his very 
bread." 

-Fellow-servants are fellow-creatiires, Em- 
ma: and I believe there is but one rule which 
should guide us in our conduct to them or to 
each other. The Bible teaches us that there 
are duties of servants to masters as well as of 
servants to each other. If a servant would 
not see oppression and unkindness from a mas- 
ter or mistress to a fellow-servant in silence, 
neither do I think he should witness injustice 
or dishonesty from a servant to a master, with- 
out in the first place warning the offender, and 
in the second divulging all his knowledge of 
the affair. 

Although John has not robbed your father, 
he had. according to your own statement, 
allowed others to do so, and has therefore for- 
feited all right to the character of ^ faitJif id 
servant. However, Emma, my dear, there is 
some one else in fault besides John. There is 
no circumstance in life which can excuse a lie; 
and concealment is very often the child of 
transgression. It was not the voice of a kind 
and gracious God which drove Adam and Eve 
among the trees of the garden ; it was a sense 
of sin. And, dear Emma, you would find it diffi- 
cult to convince me, and what is of more conse- 



66 TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 

quence, to convince your own conscience, that 
you are satisfied with your conduct last evening. 

Suppose after the first meeting with John, 
which appears to have been accidental, you 
had told him that under the restrictions and 
rules of school you could not see him there 
again, nor could you act in opposition to your 
father's judgment and wishes. You might have 
promised to represent the case to him, and to 
intercede for him as far as possible ; and having 
done this, you would have had no difficulty in 
stating the circumstance to Miss Allen or my- 
self, and seeking our advice on the subject. I 
want you to see, Emma, that your fault has been 
improper concealment^ and that you have made 
an indiscretion into a positive sin by thus acting. 

t'Let this be a lesson to you; and so far 
from feeling aggrieved with Mary because 
she feared to offend Grod rather than you, be 
grateful for such a friend. Be reconciled to 
her, Emma, will you not?" 

Emma's hand was offered, but her heart held 
,back; and it was but a half reconciliation, as 
Mary felt. But she was consoled by the know- 
ledge that there was no just cause for Emma's 
coldness ; and her heart did not condemn her^ 
and she felt at peace with Grod, who is greater 
than our hearts and knoiveth all things. 



TRIAL OF PFvINCIPLE. 



5T 



It was not easy for her to remain in the 
school-room cheerful, however, for the yomig 
ladies noYv' freely discussed the matter. 

"^Ye shall be quite afraid of you," said one. 
You are as great a tattler as Annie Norris 
was/' 

Yes, and you were hard enough on her," 
said another voice, for telling of Miss Allen's 
present. I really think it is sufficient to 
speak the truth for one's self. Miss Marshall." 

Mary's spirit rose ; but remembering the 
Saviour's words — "Blessed are they wJio are 
persecuted for rigliteousness' sake' — and also 
Miss Fellowes's remark, that it is possible to 
disfigure as well as to adorn truth, she quietly 
said — 

What sJiouId I have answered ? I left 
Emma in the garden ; she had told me that 
she could not come in, and asked me to say 
she wished for no supper, and I had answered 
her. I told her I could not, and would not 
tell a lie. Now what should I have said in 
answer to Miss Fellowes ? What would you 
have said ? For it is easy to blame me, but 
what answer would have been the right one, if 
mine was not ?" 

''Miss Fellowes asked where Emma was, 
and you might, without telling a story, have 



58 



TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



made twenty excuses. For your bosom friend, 
too ! ' Oh, save me from my friends' is no 
idle wish, I see." 

''Well, — but," — said Mary, who, in spite of 
this bitter speech, kept her temper, "tell me 
one of the twenty excuses I might have made. 
Come, now, I am as sorry as you are for Em- 
ma — more sorry, I believe, than a great many 
of you. I love Emma dearly, and she knows 
that ; but I love something else better." 

Oh," said one, "you could have given her 
own reply — that she did not wish for supper." 

" Miss Fellowes did not ask any thing about 
supper, so far as I recollect," replied the im- 
movable Mary. 

" Oh, nonsense ! you make yourself quite 
ridiculous. I tell you there would have been 
no falsehood in that. Other people love truth 
as well as the immaculate Miss Marshall. I 
would not tell a lie for the world; but as to 
getting a school-fellow and a friend into trouble 
by obstinately sticking to the truth, as you do, 
I don't believe there's a girl in the school but 
despises you for it." 

"Well," said Mary, "then I must be con- 
tent to be despised. I believe that I should 
have done wrong had I kept back the truth 
last night ; and I had rather you should despise 



TRIAL OF PRINCIPLE. 



59 



me tlian despise myself, or than that God 
should be displeased with me, as he would have 
been had I prevaricated. I think prevarica- 
tion is a mean, cowardly sort of lying, which 
I would not practise if it were to save me from 
the stake,'* said Mary, warmly. 

And she said the truth. There was a mar- 
tyr's heart beating in that youthful bosom — a 
heart which though it could love tenderly, nay 
passionately, could not for any earthly object 
of affection sin against a God of truth. Still, 
it needed a trust in God, and great courage in 
the poor child ; and she had to remember, ere 
she could still the tempest of her heart, that 
He whose example she desired to follow was 
despised and rejected of men, and counted an 
enemy, because '^he told them the truth." 

Think not lightly of Mary's conflict, nor of 
Mary's victory, unless you yourselves have 
waged such a warfare. An hour will come 
when the greatest conqueror shall feel that his 
courage was pusillanimity indeed, compared 
with her's that day. 



CHAPTEE V. 



THE mother's death.— the SERVANT'S STORY. 

The sisters were at home once more. Their 
school-days were over. The path of life with 
all its joys and sorrows lay before them, and 
little were these young pilgrims prepared for 
the conflicts of the way. Six months had 
passed since the evening conversation recorded 
in a previous chapter. Summer was over, and 
it seemed too as though a cloud rested on the 
summer sky of their existence. Their mother 
was dead ! Who that has been bereaved, can 
fail to recall the struggle of the heart in re- 
turning to the daily path which had been for- 
saken for the last sad duty of affection, that of 
accompanying some beloved one to the borders 
of the dark valley of the Shadow of Death. 

Where the illness has been long, and where 
the common occupations of the attendant 
on the sick-couch have been for some time 
laid aside, there is not a more weary task than 
to resume the unfinished needlework, to re- 
open the long-closed book where the leaf is 
60 



THE mother's death. 



61 



turned down at some page, perhaps by the 
departed; — to go about the house as in a 
dream, and ever and anon to awaken almost 
with a start, and to feel the words, Where is 
our beloved one?" die upon the lips, and the 
consciousness that they shall return no more, 
chill our hearts as the breath of night, or 'as 
the blast of winter ! 

Listless and despondent, Ellen and Annie 
sat in the quiet parlour of their father's house 
one winter's afternoon, a few days only having 
elapsed since the remains of their beloved 
mother were laid in the grave. They tried to 
resume their usual employments, but the eye 
of each motherless girl instinctively wandered 
to the vacant place, and the heart was filling 
every moment with a flood of grief, and re- 
collections pouring in at every passage. 

They did not weep. It scarcely seemed 
the time for that. There was almost a sense 
of the mother's presence, which stilled any 
tumultuous outbreak of sorrow. At last the 
elder sister opened the piano. ^-My mother's 
song!" said she. I have never heard that 
since she sang it;" then gently, and with a 
plaintive voice, Ellen sang the words which 
their mother had written on the occasion of 
her own bereavement, and which they had 
6 



62 



TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



often heard from her lips when they were 
infants on her knee. 

Where is the absent, where? 

We miss her gentle song of sweetest strain; 
We call her vainly at the hour of prayer, 

She answereth not again. 

Still is that tender voice 

Which spoke in tones of the heart's deepest love; 
Cold is the heart which would with our's rejoice, 

The heart our griefs could move. 

Closed is the watchful eye, 

That eye which bent o'er each young sleeper's brow; 
Hush'd is her earnest prayer, her anxious sigh, 

Our mother sleepeth now. 

Dim are our joys at morn. 

And dimmer still our hearth at even ; 
Heavy those cares which thou hast meekly borne, 

Our mother now in heaven. 

We thought we loved thee so 

Whilst thou wast with us, mother, yet on earth; 
Yet cold and faint our warmest love seems now. 

So far below thy worth. 

Oh for one hour with thee, 

Our griefs upon thy faithful breast to pour; 
Yet Mother! Mother! could that be. 

Our tears would fall no more. 

Yet leave us not alone ! 

Shall not the mother's spirit o'er us rest, 
Till we rejoin her where her soul has gone, 

In a home pure and blest. 



THE servant's story. 



63 



The song ceased, and the sisters mingled 
their affectionate tears and sympathies, as 
they clasped each other in a fond embrace. 

She was such a mother!" said Ellen, '^and 
oh, Annie, does it not seem to you as though 
we had not loved her half enough?" 

"It does indeed, Ellen. All the kindness, and 
duty, and love I ever showed dear mother, 
seems nothing, while every thing I ever did to 
pain her, looks monstrous indeed." 

Ah, we see these things in another light 
over the closed grave. We have a father, oh ! 
let us try and make him feel his loss less, for^ 
Annie, what must that be?" 

At this moment the door opened, and Jane 
entered. 

''Young ladies," she said, ''1 scarcely know 
whether I ought to ask such a thing, but will 
you see Mary? — Your old nursemaid, I mean. 
She called several times while my dear mistress 
was ill, and now she says if she can but see 
you she shall be contented." 

Mary was admitted. Many years had elapsed 
since the girls had seen her face, and it 
was little to be wondered at that they did not 
recognise her. Though they had sprung up 
from childhood to early youth, they were not 
more changed than she, and they sat gazing at 



64 



TRUTH IS EVERY THIXa. 



her in astonishment, till Mary herself broke 
silence. 

I do not wonder that you did not know me, 
young ladies. I have grown older since we 
parted, and so have you; but the years that 
have passed over you have been happy years. 
But I— oh! Miss Ellen" 

Ellen begged her to explain herself. 

^^It is long. Miss Ellen,." said Mary, since 
I have heard a kind voice, and I can hardly 
bear it, I — don't be frightened — but I am just 
out of prison." 

"Of prison, Mary! For what? Oh, im- 
possible," said Annie; "what should you have 
done to deserve a prison?" 

"Much, Miss Annie, as you shall hear if 
you are not afraid to listen to so wicked a 
creature. I came first to this house about a 
fortnight back, to tell your dear mother all my 
troubles, but I was denied, and yet I believe 
she would have seen me, for sin never seemed 
to make her hate the sinner. Dear lady ! Oh, 
that I had seen her!" 

This reference to their mother, re-opened 
the fountain of grief, and for a few moments 
the girls sobbed aloud. 

"I cannot weep. Miss Ellen. It is long ago 
since my tears were dried, and I suppose I 



THE SEKVAIS^t'S STOEY. 



65 



have no more to shed, and what good should 
tears do me? They will not wash away my 
guilt. They will not bring back my good 
name. I enyy you, young ladies, for you have 
stood by your dear mother's dying pillow, and 
have seen her die in peace and joy no doubt. 
Mine died while I was in prison; and I loved 
her too, though, may be, if she had been a 
mother like your's, I too should have closed 
her eyes, — but that is all over now." 

^'But how is it, Mary," said Ellen, ^^that 
you should have fallen into such trouble and 
disgrace? Tell us, for though we cannot 
advise and help you as dear mother would 
have done, we can sympathize with you. Come^ 
Mary, tell us all about it." 

The entrance of Miss Fellowes, who had 
come to spend a few days, during the Christmas 
holidays, with her old pupils, put a stop to 
their further conversation, but Ellen went out 
to beg Jane and the cook to make poor Mary 
as comfortable as possible in the kitchen till 
after tea, and then returned to Miss Fellowes. 

^^How kind in you to come!" said Ellen"^ 
and Annie. ^Ye did not expect you, though 
we said, and father has said, how he wished 
you would. Aunt went home yesterday- She 
has a large family, and thought it would be no 



66 TRUTH IS EVERY THINa. 

kindness to me to stop longer, as I had better 
get used to the housekeeping at once, but I 
fear I shall never be able to make a comfort- 
able home for dear father. My brothers too, 
poor fellows ! I pity them, they will so miss 
mother. Though from her long illness she 
had not been very active of late, still they 
could always go to her for advice and sym- 
pathy, and now they have no one." 

Miss Fellowes spoke tenderly to the mourn- 
ing sisters, and endeavoured to cheer and 
encourage them ; and such was the influence of 
her few sincere and bright words, that they 
felt as though they could take courage to be- 
gin their new duties. 

After tea was over, and their father had re- 
tired, (for his duties in an harassing business 
did not leave him much time to indulge in 
grief at home,) Annie at once referred to the 
subject of Mary's visit, and soon interested 
their teacher in her case. Jane, who was 
clearing the tea-things away at the time, asked 
permission to speak. 

Ma'am," she said to Miss Fellowes, "I 
beg pardon, ma'am, but that is a very bad, 
deceitful girl. She was put in prison for 
thieving, and her word never could be trusted, 
and never can. I should be sorry the young 



THE servant's STOEY. 



67 



ladies should believe her tale. My poor mis- 
tress (the young ladies may have forgotten) 
sent her away for lying, and I assure you she 
is not improved since those days." 

Indeed," said Miss Fellowes, ^'I should be 
very sorry that Misses Ellen and Annie should 
hear any thing improper ; but which of us, Jane, 
has not need of kindness and forbearance? 
Do not let us condemn her too severely. Do 
you remember that a holier than you or I, 
said to the woman who was a sinner, ' Neither 
do I condemn thee,' and shall we assume to 
judge others?" 

Jane was silent, and withdrew, and Miss 
Fellowes advised Ellen and Annie to ask Mary 
into the parlour again, and to hear her motive 
for calling on them before they listened to her 
tale. 

Mary's sojourn in the kitchen did not appear 
to have softened her temper. The girls, whose 
recollections of the nursemaid were, that she 
was a sweet, gentle-mannered and obliging 
person, could scarcely believe that it was the 
same who now stood before them. 

Her dress was mean and slatternly, and in- 
dicated a perfect recklessness, no less than the 
expression of her fast-closed lips and clouded 
brow. ^^I am come to see you, young ladies, 



68 



TRUTH IS EYEET THINa. 



not to beg, as the cook says, (though God 
knows I need bread,) I am come to look on you 
because I loved you, and because you are the 
children of one who never spoke a harsh word, 
though she said many and many a kind one. 
I didn't know till I saw her empty chair, that 
I had any spark of love left. They had near 
put it out in the kitchen, but my poor mistress 
and her gentle voice, I can see and hear now; 
and oh. Miss Ellen, you who had such a mother^ 
how good ought you to be !" 

i'How is it, Mary," asked Annie, "that 
you are in such distress. Come, tell us, for I 
cannot bear mystery, — tell us all about it." 

Thus encouraged, the girl began I left 
your dear mother's service, miss, to go to live 
with a Mrs. Banyard, in the North. She was 
a stranger to your mother, and I do not think 
it was a good place for me. How^ever, I did 
WTong when I had good example and good 
advice, so I don't think it would have made 
any difference. You know, I suppose, why I 
left here. It w^as because I did not keep to 
the truth, and used to indulge you in secret with 
reading books your mother disapproved of." 

^'Ah," interrupted Annie, "the Arabian 
Nights — I remember." 

" Oh, not that book alone, Miss Annie, (you 



THE servant's story. 



69 



may forget, but I do not,) how many wrong 
things I allowed yon to do, and your brother 
too. Poor master Edward! I often think it 
would have been far kinder of me to have set 
myself against his early evil ways, than, as I 
often did, conceal and encourage them. But 
I had not the good training you had, Miss 
Ellen. My mother, I remember, used often to 
say — ^ Don't tell father so and so,' and I began 
to conceal things from the time I was a child. 
Then we used to learn to do wrong things, and 
hide them from her, so that by degrees I grew 
very indifferent to truth, not in great thingSy 
perhaps, but in trifles, constantly. 

^^My first was a very good place. My mis- 
tress was very patient with me, and instead of 
being harsh when I went from the truth, she 
would take great pains to reason with me, and 
show me the sin of my falsehood. I hoped I 
had overcome the sin of lying, for I lived with 
her some years, and had no other place till I 
came to you; but then I had few temptations. 
My mistress was almost always with me and 
the children, and knowing my weakness, she 
was very careful not to tempt or expose me in 
any way. I wanted more wages than she 
thought it right to give me, and I was getting 
too fond of reading tales, which I got from a 



70 TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 

circulating library, kept by an acquaintance 
of mine. They had a very bad effect upon 
me: I was always thinking about myself in 
some other circumstances, and though my mis- 
tress believed the character true which she 
gave of me, it was far from correct. Still I 
meant to do well. I always intended to break 
myself of all habits of concealment, but I was 
always so afraid of being found fault with — as 
a child I remember I was so. The fear of my 
father's anger used to make me deceitful; and 
the fear of my mistress finding me out in a 
fault, made me a bad servant. 

''Your dear mother tried me a long while. 
I was with you nearly three years, as your 
nursemaid, but she was at last forced to give 
me up. It might have been better for me^, 
had your mother told Mrs. Banyard about my 
fault. I was housemaid there, for your mother 
would not, she said, recommend me to take the 
care of children again. It was a bad place 
for me. There was a large establishment, — as 
many as seven servants in the kitchen, and I 
soon saw a great deal of evil. In this quiet 
house I had no temptation of that sort; there 
was only the cook and Jane, you know, miss^ 
and, in my first place, I had only one fellow- 
servant, so that the life I led in my last place 



THE servant's STORY. 



71 



cjulte turned my head. I got dressy, — not 
more so than the others, but much finer than I 
had ever been before. Miss Ellen, I had 
better tell you no more. Jane was right, my 
tale is not fit for young ears like yours ; and 
yet I don't know," continued Mary, ^^but it 
may be of use to you. It may be a warning 
to you, for if I had but kept to the truth, I 
never should have been in this trouble. 

were very fond of novel-reading in the 
kitchen ; and what was worse, one of the maids 
bought a pack of cards, and told us how to 
play. I lost a great deal of money by this 
means. Sometimes I won, but I then grew 
bold and lost it soon again. I am ashamed to 
tell you that I now began to take little things 
that were not mine. The young ladies often 
left money about, and if I found a piece of 
money when I swept their room, I used to keep 
it. Not at first, you know. Miss Ellen, but by 
degrees I got hard, and the lies I used to have 
to tell about it, made me harder, till things 
became very bad. Every untruth I told made 
me worse, and soon my word could be taken 
for nothing. 

''At last, after I had been there two years, 
a young gentleman, who was visiting at the 
house, told my master, at breakfast one morn- 



72 TRUTH IS EVEEY THING. 

ing, that he had met with a very uncomfortable 
circumstance. His pocket-book, which he had 
carelessly left in his coat-pocket, when he 
changed his dress for dinner the day before, 
had been robbed of a bank-note, I remember 
I was just coming into the room, when I heard 
the word robbed, and looked guilty enough, I 
dare say, for I knew I was a thief, though I 
never took Ms money. But who would believe 
me? The servants were all called up and 
questioned. They none of them knew any 
thing about it, nor did I. He was a very 
careless young man, and, I quite believe, lost 
the note, or spent it in some way which he 
forgot. However, he was, he said, certain he 
left fifteen dollars in the book, and now he had 
but ten. My boxes were searched with the 
rest, but my innocence was not believed. The 
cook told of my habits of pilfering. The 
under-housemaid said I had put a quarter of a 
dollar into my pocket, the other day, which 
was not mine, and then remembered she had 
seen me coming out of Mr. Worsley's room at 
a very unusual hour, when my work must have 
been done there. What would I have given 
then, young ladies, for a good name — for 
some kind mistress or friend to have appealed 
to — to have heard some one say, 'I never 



THE servant's STORY. 73 

hieiv her to tell a lie!' But no one who knew 
me, could say that. There were many things 
against me. I had bought a very expensive 
silk dress, unsuitable for a servant, and had 
bought it only the evening before. That was 
told, and thought suspicious. I had been out 
late the same night with an acquaintance who 
did me no good. That looked bad. And it 
was true, too, that I had told an untruth to 
my mistress about it. But I never stole that 
money. I have done as bad, I know, as if I 
had, but I did not take it. My master was a 
violent man, and insisted on my being prose- 
cuted. I was sentenced to twelve months' 
imprisonment, and I came out of prison only a 
fortnight ago. This is all I have to tell you, 
Miss Ellen; and now what am I to do ? My 
mother is dead, and I have no one to help me. 
I had to beg the money to come back here of 
an old aunt of mine, and she can ill spare it. 
I have no one to give me a character for a 
place, and I have no character of my own. 
Oh, young ladies, what should a girl out of 
f)rison do for a place?" 

Miss Fellowes, who had listened to Mary 
with great interest and kindness, now seriously 
asked her whether she felt penitence for her 



74 



TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



sin, either now or at any time during her im- 
prisonment. 

''Yes, madam," Mary replied, ''I have been 
miserable enough, I'm sure.'' 

'' There is no doubt of that, Mary, but the 
worst of men are often the most miserable. I 
do not mean merely unhappy about the conse- 
quence of your sin. I mean really sorry before 
God; grieved that you have offended Sim.'' 

Mary was silent. 

''I fear not," continued Miss Fellowes. 
''Throughout your narrative I have not heard 
an expression which leads me to suppose you 
are truly penitent. That you did not take the 
money, I can believe, but you have done many 
things as bad, and by your own confession, 
your character was lost before that money was 
stolen. Do you not feel that in the sight of 
God you are very guilty?" 

"Yes, madam," said Mary. "All you say is 
true, but I have forgotten the way to feel. I 
can't be sorry for any thing now. I have 
been with many as bad and worse than myself, 
till I am grown hard, I suppose. What would 
my sorrow avail me? Who will take a girl 
just out of prison? What is left for me but 
to steal again? I wish they had transported 
me for life, that I do," said Mary, with a 



THE servant's STORY. 



75 



violent burst of grief, ^^for how shall I ever 
gain an honest living here?" 

"Where are you lodging, Mary?*' inquired 
Miss Feliowes. 

"I am at my aunt's, ma'am, who lives in this 
town, bat she cannot keep me: her husband 
thinks it a disgrace to have me in the house. 
My brother and sisters are all at service, and 
I would not for the world go near one of 
them, — fallen as I am. My eldest sister sent 
me a little money to-day, which I paid my 
aunt directly, but she told me plainly that I 
must get other lodgings, for my uncle could 
not bear to have it known that I was there." 

Miss Feliowes addressed a few more words 
of advice to the poor girl, and taking her 
direction, promised to see her again, without5 
however, giving her much hope of assistance, 
and Mary took her leave with a heavy heart. 

"Oh, Miss Feliowes," said Annie, "what 
will poor Mary do?" 

"Indeed, Annie, I cannot tell, there are so 
few who would take a servant under such cir- 
cumstances," 

" But she does seem sorry," said Ellen. " I 
could not bear to see her misery: surely some- 
thing can be done for her." 

" I am by no means satisfied that Mary is 



76 THUTH IS EVERY THING. 

sorry," replied Miss Fellowes. ^^It is not 
enough to feel unhappy, and distressed, and 
ashamed. The sorrow that Mary feels will 
never lead to amendment, for sorrow before 
man soon passes away : sorrow before God is 
another thing. It is only godly sorrow which 
worheth repentance unto life.'' The sisters 
did not reply, and as Mr. Norris at that mo- 
ment came in, the subject of conversation was 
changed. 



CHAPTER YL 



FAMILY SORROWS. 

The position of an elder sister in a familj 
is at all times responsible, and where there are 
brothers, especially so ; and powerful may be 
her silent influence either for good or evil. I 
say Bilent^ for few brothers like their sisters to 
give them much advice ; and brothers are not 
singular in this respect. To administer advice 
in proper proportion and at proper times, re- 
quires such skill and experience, that few young 
persons are adequate to the task. 

It is generally admitted, by those who are 
anxious to do good, that it is far more difficult 
to speak a word of reproof or counsel to the 
members of their families than to strangers. 
There may be more than one cause for this. 
A consciousness of our own inconsistencies is, 
doubtless, a very powerful one with many, and 
should, at least, teach us the great practical 
lesson of the importance of example. 

Ellen Norris entered on her course, as head 
of her father's family, with deep affections; 

7* 77 



78 



TRUTH IS EVERY THINa. 



with a heart chastened by sorrow, with her 
modest and timid nature shrinking from the 
duties of her new sphere of life, but with a 
sincere desire to do and to be all her father 
required ; to be to her younger brothers and 
sister, as far as possible, all that her mother 
had been — self-denjdng, diligent and faithful 
in all things. Yet there was not, in her in- 
most soul, that grand motive for action, with- 
out which all our efforts to do good and to be 
good must be more or less fruitless. There 
was but one motive wanting to Ellen's resolu- 
tions, which would have sanctified all others, 
and enabled her to fight against her besetting 
sins successfully. This was — Love to God. A 
far more beautiful moral character than Ellen's 
would have been in constant peril without that 
love — but her's was wrecked for lack of it. 

The elder brother of the Norrises had just 
left school, and was assisting his father in the 
counting-house. He was a lad of promise, but 
was as deficient in moral, as he was remarkable 
for physical courage. He wanted the resolu- 
tion to say ^'J^o." He was constantly led 
into evils, from vfhich his taste and conscience 
revolted, owing to this deficiency. His mo- 
ther's^ influence and guidance were withdrawn 
at a critical time for Edward Norris. To his 



FAMILY SORROWS. 



79 



elder sister lie was much attached; but he was 
sensible that her character was wanting in the 
very strength he needed, and on her, there- 
fore, he could not lean. Strange that young 
hearts will not cry unto their Father in heaven, 
^'Be thou the guide of my youth;" that they 
will not, from the very fear of the dangers of 
the voyage, seek a pilot over an ocean where 
so many have made shipwreck; that they must 
prove the deceitfulness of the ocean to which 
they trust, and then, tossed and broken, with 
their freshness and their beauty marred, offer 
themselves to His service, who would have been 
a gentler Master in their youth, than the 
worldly tyrants to whom they bowed the 
neck. Alas ! alas ! that they had not earlier 
known the things which belong to their 
peace !" 

Edward, dear," said Annie, one summer's 
day after dinner, ^^do be home in time to-night 
to walk with us. We are going to see poor 
old nurse's daughter, who is married, you 
know, and come to live at Alton. She would 
so like to see you, Edward, and it is a long 
walk for Ellen and me to go alone. So don't 
run out after tea in such a hurry, that's a dear 
fellow, but be polite for once in your life. 
Come, promise us, Ned," 



80 TRUTH IS EVERY THINa. 



<i Well, I promise you, Annie, I will, if that 
will do." 

^^No, Edward,'' said Mr. Norris, "I think 
that will not do. You seem to consider it 
sufl5.cient to promise, but the performance of 
your promise alone will satisfy your sister." 

Why, father, of course, I mean to perform 
my promise," said Edward, warmly, "I always 
do- Sometimes I am prevented, you know." 

'^It is easy to satisfy yourself in this way, 
Edward, but the persons whom you so often 
disappoint may be excused for looking at the 
matter in another light. If I promised you 
your quarterly allowance, fully meaning to pay 
you, do you think you should be satisfied with 
an excuse instead of the money, at the end of 
the quarter? And when this non-fulfilment 
of my promise took place, not once, but again 
and again, how would you view my character 
and dealings with you?" 

Edward could not answer; and it being now 
time to return to the counting-room, no further 
conversation took place on the subject. 

Tea-time came, and Annie looked anxiously 
to the door, but in vain. 

i'Do you expect your brother?" inquired 
her father. 

"Yes, father, I always do," said Annie 



FAMILY SOREOWS. 



81 



cheerfully. ''You know it is a pity to meet 
trouble halfway, so I always hope that Ned 
will perform his promises." 

"What is it that Edward is so much engaged 
in just now? Surely he is not always at 
cricket, — which is his common excuse to me for 
absence." 

''I don't know, I am sure," said Annie. 

''He never tells me where he goes. Does 
he tell you, Ellen?" asked her father. 

" I have never asked him," was the equivocal 
reply. 

"Well, my dear, then I think were I in 
your place I should ask him. I am quite sure 
he is not satisfied with his conduct, whatever 
it is. I think an elder sister may be very w^ell 
excused for asking her brother's confidence." 

To their surprise, Edward at this moment 
appeared, and Annie, delighted at his redeeming 
his word, said, "There, father, he is come^ 
you see !" 

A more unfortunate time for rejoicing could 
not be, for Edward was flushed, and extremely 
annoyed that he had been made the subject of 
conversation, or his weakness animadverted on 
during his absence. 

"Well," said he, "as my promises are never 
to be relied on, I will take care to make none 



82 



TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



in future, and shall be rather more slow in 
obliging you than I have been." 

The tea was not a very happy meal after 
this speech, and was concluded without much 
conversation. After it was over, and during 
the walk, there was still a cloud on Edward's 
brow, and Ellen and Annie felt how little joy 
there was in the unwilling company of their 
brother. At last Ellen broke silence. 

Edward," she said, '^what is it you are 
always after of an evening ? Father is uncom- 
fortable about it; for he cannot believe, he 
says, that you spend all your time at cricket, 
and you are very late sometimes. Now do tell 
me if there is any thing wrong, pray do." 

"Why, Ellen, there is nothing wrong, — 
and, — but that you are all so nervous, I would 
have told you before. I go down the water 
sometimes with the Elliotts, and I know if 
father were to hear of it, he would fidget him- 
self and you too. George Elliott is teaching 
me to row, and now you have all the secret, 
and a great one it is." 

"If that is all then, Edward, may I tell 
father so, next time he asks me? I knew you 
had sometimes been on the water, for Jane 
told me she had seen you ; but 0, Edward ! I 
should be very miserable if I thought you went 



FAMILY SORROWS. 



83 



to the gardens, and places where I know the 
young Elliotts are seen. I wish you were not 
so fond of them. I don't think they will do 
you any good. But now, Edward, there is one 
thing which you must promise me. Promise 
that you will never take the boys there. Oh, 
if any thing were to happen to either Willie 
or Frank, what would your feelings be ? Pray, 
Edward, never take either of them.'' 

Edward promised, and at the time he thought 
he was sincere. As he looked on his younger 
brothers sporting before them in all their boy- 
ish innocence and glee, he felt that he could not 
lead them astray. But weak is love, and weak 
is resolution without principle. Edward Norris 
found it so. 

Of all Mr. Norris's children there was not 
one who had entwined himself round the heart 
of every member of the household so closely 
as little Willie. He was one of those bright, 
loving children, who shed sunshine around their 
path, and joy and gladness wherever they go, 

" I don't know how it is," the grave cook used 
to say, "but the sight of that dear Willie's 
face, even when he is a little troublesome and 
runs away with my rolling-pin and makes 
cakes of his own out of my dough, always 
turns away my anger." 



84 



TEUTH IS EVERY THIXa. 



^'I Tvish I could be angry with Willie some- 
times," said Jane. Such a sight of dirt as 
he brings in ! But then he always looks in my 
face and says, '0, Jane, I am sorry,' and 
who can scold such a boy? Then he never 
tells a story, and often bears blame for Frank, 
I believe. And he was his mother's darlino:, I 
know, and as like mistress as possible; and he 
is a little Christian, too, if I have learned the 
marks right from my Bible. Besides, he loves 
his Sunday-school so dearly that nothing can 
keep him away ; and as he hears so much there 
about his Saviour, I do i^^t think he would 
love it so -well if he did not love the Saviour 
too." 

And if "Willie had an idol, it was his brother 
Edward. 

'^What are you looking at yom'self in the 
glass for?" asked Ellen of Willie one day. 

'^Why, Ellen, I am looking to see where I 
am like Edward. Mrs. Raynes says I grow 
just like him. Oh, I wish I did! He is very 
beautiful and good too; don't you think so, 
Ellen?" 

Ellen sighed. She had been sitting up the 
previous night for her brother, and answered 
thedittle questioner with a sad smile. Well, 
I hope, when I am as old, I shall be as good, 




Look here ! Ned has rigged me my boat, and I am 
going to the pond, &c. — p. 83. 



FAMILY SORROWS. 



85 



that's all, Ellen. Look here ! Ned has rigged 
me my boat, and I am going to the little 
pond, — only the little pond down in the yillage, 
you know — to float it, but not if you don't like 
it, Ellen. You know I won't if you tell me 
not." 

Oh yes, Willie, you may go to the little 
pond by Mr. Eox's house; but I wish you were 
not so fond of the water and of boats, Willie. 
I don't want you to be a sailor." 

^^Ah, that's because you are a girl, — a 
woman, — I suppose I should say," said Willie, 
merrily. However, I sha'n't go to sea in 
this craft, and as Annie says, there'll be time 
enough to think about trouble when it comes." 

Come along, Frank, we have no lessons to 
do to-day. I am glad holidays are come." 

As the boys ran off with their boat, Ellen's 
eyes filled with tears. That they in their 
early boyhood and innocence should have no 
mother, was to her so inexpressibly painful, 
that sometimes the very gladness of Willie's 
laugh would touch her to the quick, so deep 
was her anxiety that he at least might not lose 
his guilelessness in an evil and treacherous 
world. 

Edward's boating excursions had been con- 
tinued and prolonged to a late hour for some 
8 



86 TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 

nights past. Mr. Norris, whose business de- 
manded considerable travelling, was at this 
time absent on a fortnight's journey, and Ellen 
had thoughtlessly consented to sit up for her 
brotherj contrary both to her judgment and 
her conscience. She had more than once 
expostulated with him. She had often entreated 
him to desist from his evil courses, if not for 
his own, at least for her sake. She had even 
pointed out to him the sin of such deceit, but 
where was her strength in these reproofs? 
Had she not herself prevaricated ? Had she 
not herself told more than one untruth, not 
only to hide his, but her own delinquencies? 
Edward did not say this, but he felt it, and 
she knew that he felt it whenever she touched 
on this point. Thus had the sister, with all 
the sister's love warm in her bosom, thrown 
away her power of influencing her w^ayward 
brother for good. She had covered his faults, 
and it was now in vain to turn him. Alas ! 
poor Ellen ! it was a heavenly guide, the 
divine Saviour, which Edward and herself 
needed, and they sought him not ! 

Mr. Norris was what is called an easy man. 
He was by no means deficient in principle or 
feeling, but he had been for so many years 
immersed in business, and in the cares of 



FAMILY SORROWS. 



87 



providing for a young family and a delicate 
wife, that it had not occurred to him that the 
charge of his children formed any part of his 
duty. He loved them dearly, but he had little 
time to study their characters; and Ellen, 
with her neat dress and pleasing person, lady- 
like manners and gentle temper, he thought 
fully adequate to the care of house and chil- 
dren, assisted, as she was, by experienced and 
valuable servants. 

Edward was but fifteen, and had just left 
school, his father's circumstances requiring his 
assistance in the business. Willie and Frank, 
about nine and eight years old, did not occasion 
much anxiety at present. They went to a daily 
school, and their sisters were kind and good to 
them. Of this he was satisfied, and thus do 
many loving parents satisfy themselves. They 
are startled at last when they see evil habits 
disclosed in full ppwer, and corrupt associa- 
tions in various forms, but they have not 
watched for the first indications of the heart's 
disease in the earliest departures from the path 
of rectitude. 



CHAPTER VIL 



THE VISIT, AND ITS SAD SEQUEL. 

LEAViNa the graver matters of our story, 
let us see how Ellen and Mary acted in the 
society to which their age, and the well-known 
character of their parents, now gave them ac- 
cess. Many persons in the town and neigh- 
bourhood were interested in the motherless 
girls. Some, who had known and loved their 
mother, proved themselves very valuable friends 
to the Norrises. Their notice and occasional 
counsel, (especially that of Mrs. Marshall, 
Mary's mother, who resided in the same town,) 
were gratefully received. Others there were, 
more friendly in profession, but in reality only 
inquisitive and censorious visitors, who would 
either affront the girls by invidious and un- 
feeling remarks upon their management and 
household arrangements, or would, after prais- 
ing them in a morning call, straightway talk 
against them at a gossiping neighbour's. Such 
is the world's morality. There was no very 
88 



THE VISIT. 



89 



warm intimacy between the Marslialls and 
Norrises, that is to say, between the young 
people. Ellen and Annie thought Mary a 
very good girl, but as they expressed it, they 
could not get on with her." Nor indeed 
could they. Mary never could let Annie's 
tongue get beyond the truth, without gravely 
remonstrating ; nor could she bear to see Ellen's 
wavering and uncandid conduct any more than 
in their school-days. 

Mary Marshall was on a morning visit at 
the Norrises, assisting Ellen and Annie to cut 
out some work, and altering some old dresses 
into the then present fashion. Economy was 
an object to both families, and it was not often 
that they consulted any other dress-maker 
than a woman who had worked for them in 
their childhood, and who used to come and 
assist in the more abstruse part of the young 
ladies' mantua-making. They were very busy 
cutting and contriving, when a double knock 
was heard, and down went the scissors out of 
Ellen's hand. Mary looked for an explana- 
tion, while Annie, who had taken a private 
survey of the callers, exclaimed, 

^'Why, it is the Misses Anson! 0 Ellen! 
what shall we do ? This is sweeping-day, and 
the drawing-room is all in confusion ; besides. 



90 TRUTH IS EVERY THINa. 



Jane cannot bear to be interrupted. All these 
things must be taken up-stairs." 

"Why," said Mary, quietly picking up a few 
pieces of paper which gave the floor an untidy 
appearance, ^^what are you ashamed of?" 

Oh, I should not like the Misses Anson to 
see all this," said Ellen, gathering silks and 
lining hastily together, and, running out of the 
room with them, left Annie to apologize as well 
as she could for the remains of the dress-makino- 

o 

apparatus. 

The Misses Anson were what is termed 
fashionable young ladies, and though by no 
means ill-natured girls, had a certain weakness 
of head rather, (it is to be hoped,) than a bad- 
ness of heart, which made them wonderfully 
afraid of being thought to know any thing in 
the world that was really useful. 

Ellen and Annie were quite right in their 
fears. Had the Misses Anson known that the 
neatly dressed Misses Norris made their own 
garments principally, they would have honoured 
their door w^ith no more double knocks. But 
they were at present in ignorance of this vul- 
garity in their friends ; and having only lately 
returned from school, and being rather in want 
of society, they set up for patronesses where 
they could, and friends where they might. To 



THE VISIT. 



91 



their superiors^ — superiors, I mean, in tlieir own 
estimation, (a superiority rather difficult to de- 
fine, by-the-bye,) — they were very conciliating, 
or, as Mary Marshall said, obsequious. To their 
inferiors^ that is to say, to those who did not 
drive a carriage, nor go to town every season, 
nor dine at six o'clock, &c. &c., they were 
patronizing. To Mary Marshall's class they 
were distant but respectful. 

^^We have called very early," observed the 
elder Miss Anson, afiectedly, but we came to 
ask you to join a party at our house on Thurs- 
day, and we are so afraid of losing you, that 
we were determined to come ourselves and hear 
your reply at once. Where is your sister. 
Miss Annie?" 

Annie, who was scarcely recovered from the 
perturbation which the efi*ects of the double 
knock, under such perplexing circumstances, 
had caused, said first, that she did not know, 
and then that she would go and see, and left 
the visitors in amazement at Miss Annie Nor- 
ris's want of breeding. 

The truest politeness is ever found with the 
simple-hearted. The cottage wife, who, at the 
entrance of a lady, with a slight apology goes 
on with her ironing or her mending, thus show- 
ing her visitor that she does not disturb her. 



92 TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



but is truly welcome, is far more polite than 
many a flurried mistress of a mansion, who, 
not being quite in the dress she would have 
chosen, or in the most genteel parlour in her 
house, or perhaps busied with housekeeping 
cares, lets her caller see, by her very absence 
of employment and the flutter which she can- 
not disguise, that the visit is not exactly ap- 
propriate, and that her thoughts are far away 
in the kitchen, dressing-room, or nursery. 
When Ellen and Annie returned to the par- 
lour, their visitors renewed the invitation, 
which was eagerly accepted by Annie, and 
with some hesitation by Ellen. 

Mr. Norris had too much sense to desire for 
his daughters an introduction into such so- 
ciety, where their ambition would be excited, 
while their intelligence and growth in all that 
would make them useful and beloved sisters, 
daughters, or friends, would receive no advance- 
ment. Ellen had repeatedly heard her father 
express a dislike to the acquaintance, and felt 
a difficulty during his absence in complying 
with the urgent requests of the Misses Anson, 
who, as it is the fashion with young ladies to 
do under such circumstances, expressed far 
more anxiety and desire than the occasion 
actually demanded. Ellen and Annie had 



THE VISIT. 



93 



never been taiTght to dance, and the fear of 
appearing singular, in the event of dancing at 
the Ansons' party, rather damped the zeal of 
"both sisters upon further consideration. 

''Now, Miss Norris, may "we expect you?" 
said Miss Anson, almost tired of her vacilla- 
tion, her only replies being, ''You are very 
kind;" and "I should enjoy it exceedingly;" 
"Will you allow me to leave it uncertain?" "I 
am not quite sure that we are disengaged:" 
"Let me think;" &c. 

"Oh, we shall expect you, — remember," — 
said Miss Anson, — "at seven o'clock we meet. 
It is early, but mother thought, as some of our 
guests live at a distance, it will be better than 
a later hour." 

"Miss Marshall," turning to Mary, "I hope 
we shall have the pleasure of seeing you." 

Mary hesitated ; not that she had any doubt 
about refusing the invitation, but because she 
was combating with her excessive dislike to 
the Ansons, and endeavouring to compose a 
respectful and lady-like refusal. 

"You are very kind," she replied, "but I 
cannot accept the invitation." 

"Why?" asked the younger Miss Anson. 
" Are you engaged?" 

" Oh dear, no," said Mary, smiling. "I have 



94 



TRUTH IS EVERY THIXa. 



very few engagements, but I could not make 
one without asking mother first, and therefore 
I must refuse." 

The Misses Anson here declared their in- 
tention of calling on Mrs. Marshall, had they 
not seen Mary, but Mary quietly begged them 
not to give themselves that trouble. Her 
mother's opinion she knew, and her own was 
happily the same, that visiting for her was out 
of the question. Neither her circumstances 
nor tastes fitted her for fashionable company ; 
and that as dancing was quite out of her line, 
she did not go into company knowingly, w^here 
she must be a check on the amusements of 
others, or be obliged to frame excuses for 
seeming to be singular. It was better and 
safer for her to decline the invitation, though 
she was sensible of their kindness in giving it. 

^^Do you think dancing wrong, then, Miss 
Marshall?" inquired Miss Fanny Anson. 

"For you. Miss Fanny, or for myself?" 
said Mary. 

^^For myself, a wise mother has judged, by 
never allowing me to learn; for you, your 
mother has judged, and I have nothing to do 
with the matter." 

The Misses Anson, quite puzzled by this 
answer, so unlike the replies of their acquaint- 



THE VISIT. 



95 



ances generally, thought Mary was a very odd 
girl, and soon took their leave. 

The work was resumed, and Ellen was 
greatly discomfited to find that, on the back 
of the sofa, lay a breadth of silk, which, in 
the hurry of removal, they had not observed. 

Well, suppose the Misses Anson had seen 
you at work, what then?" said Mary. 

"Oh I don't mind," replied Annie, ^^but 
vou would not, I think, have liked it, your- 
self." 

'^1 tell you, Annie, what I should have dis- 
liked still more ; that Miss Anson should have 
supposed I spent large sums at a dress-maker's, 
when I knew that my father, to enable him to 
go on in business, was obliged to get accommo- 
dated at Mr. Anson's bank." 

Ellen and Annie blushed. They could not 
tell but that their father was in similar cir- 
cumstances — which indeed was a fact. 

Now came the trouble of dress. There was, 
indeed, little time to prepare new clothes, for 
to-day was Monday, and on Thursday was the 
party at Mr. Anson's. Many times did Ellen 
wish that she had not yielded, and felt half 
disposed to refuse even now ; but Annie would 
not go alone, and that she would decline she 
could not hope. 



96 TEUTH IS EVERY THIXa. 



The day came; and the sisters, in their 
neat white-muslin dresses, were moving about 
in the heated drawing-room. Mrs. Anson 
received them kindly. She had somewhat 
more discernment than her daughters, and 
was quite capable of perceiving that there 
was a native gentility in the Misses Norris, 
which made them by no means a disgrace to 
her society. The evening was spent in much 
the same way as such evenings usually are. 
At last Ellen and Annie returned home, trying 
to think that they had spent a very delightful 
evening, but secretly tired and disgusted with 
the whole affair. Edward was out as usual. 
The evening was fine, and the water had more 
charms for him than ever. 

Weary and irritable, the sisters prepared to 
retire. Jane, who had met them at the door, 
stood in the entrance of the parlour, looking 
very uncomfortable. At last she said, 

^^Miss Norris, the cook is gone out to look 
after Master Edward, but that is not the worst. 
He took Willie out a walk with him to-ni^ht, 
and though it is twelve o'clock, they are not 
yet back. There is a grand rowing-match to- 
day, and I am afraid he has taken little Willie 
with, him to see it; but oh. Miss Ellen, what 
will my master say?" 



THE SAD SEQUEL. 



97 



^^How could you, Jane/' — Ellen began,— 
^'how could you let him go?" 

^^How could I refuse, Miss Ellen? You 
know lie has often been out with Master Ed- 
ward, and he seemed so dull when you were 
out, that I was glad Master Edward offered to 
take him. Frank is in bed and asleep. He 
did not care to go, he said. Let's hope no 
harm will come of it." 

It seemed as if Jane's wishes were fulfilled, 
for at this moment Edward and Willie came 
in. Ellen, in her thankfulness at seeing the 
child again, forbore to reproach her brother 
for the lateness of the hour, till Willie was safe 
in bed, and then returned to ask him how he 
could think of such a thing, as to keep so 
young a child out till after midnight. Edward 
made very light of it, but Ellen could see he 
was uneasy. 

Long after the others were in bed and 
asleep, the sister might be seen bending over 
the flushed and excited little boy, who was so 
full of the oars and the boat and the music 
and the water, that he could not compose him- 
self to sleep. He had seen them play bowls, 
too, he said, and Mr. Elliott had promised to 
teach him one ^ay; and so he ran on, little 
thinking that every word he spoke was pain to 
9 



98 



TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



his anxious sister. At length he slept, but 
the sleep was not refreshing, and Ellen dared 
not leave him. 

On going to the window to draw down the 
blind, that the morning sun, which was now 
rising, might not wake him, her eye fell upon 
a little coat, which she did not recognise as 
her brother's. Suddenly the whole truth flashed 
upon her. Had Willie been in the water ? His 
excitement and feverishness, and the pain in 
his head, of which he complained, were then 
fully accounted for. She ran to Edward's 
room, and Edward confessed he had had a 
wetting, by one of the Elliott's imprudently 
jumping into the boat on one side, just as they 
were landing, but they had borrowed clothes 
for him, and hoped he would be none the worse. 

But he was the worse. The excitement in 
itself was too much for Willie, and the remain- 
ing in wet clothes after being excessively heated, 
had brought on a violent cold, attended with 
fever, and before twenty-four hours had elapsed, 
the absent father was summoned to Willie's 
bedside. It was not a time for reproach, for 
the self-reproaches of brother and sister were 
sufficient. 

Day by day the fever raged on. The little 
brighl-eyed boy, in his delirium, was ever call- 



THE SAD SEQUEL. 



99 



ing on Edward to come and look at the white 
sails of his ship on the blue sea, and to watch 
him climb the mast so gallantly ; and now to 
see the land afar off, where he would go, (such 
had been his dream in health,) the' land where 
such fine birds lived ; he saw them now ; and 
then he was on the sea again, and the ship was 
coming home ! home ! and such presents he 
had for father, and Ellen, and Ned. Then he 
came to himself awhile, and wearily said he 
could not hear the water splash now, he wished 
he could, for he was hot and thirsty. He then 
asked to hear his hymns, and listened with 
great joy to the favourite one of his mother's, 
beginning 

Why those fears, behold 'tis Jesus 
Holds the helm and guides the ship," 

when he asked to be turned round, and saying, 
gently, ^'I shall never go to sea now, Ned, but 
I hope Jesus is taking me where dear mother 
is, to live with him in heaven," sank asleep, 
and so died. 



CHAPTER VIIL 



THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 

It is a great mistake, and one into which 
our deceitful hearts are peculiarly liable to 
fallj that sorrow or trial, in its various forms, 
is, of itself, useful discipline. People are too 
apt to suppose that affliction has some sort of 
mysterious efficacy, of which those who en- 
dure it necessarily partake. Thus we hear 
the poor speak of their poverty and suffering 
here, as a kind of temporary injustice, for 
which they shall be repaid hereafter. But it 
is not the poor alone, though they, in their 
simplicity, give utterance to feelings in which 
the rich participate. Persons who have been 
greatly bereaved or otherwise afflicted, who 
have heard that affliction is one of the means 
by which the Creator disciplines his creatures, 
are too apt to sit down quietly beneath the 
rod, as though the suffering in itself was suffi- 
cient to bring forth the peaceable fruits of 
righteoaisness ; but this is not the intent of 
Him, who never sends a chastisement without 

100 



THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 101 



good cause. It would be well for the afflicted 
to seek out that cause, meekly acknowledging 
His wisdom, who seeth the end from the be- 
ginning. Truly they need to look no farther 
than their own hearts, for an explanation of 
many of the dealings of the Most High ; the 
humble will not often fail to discern there 
some lurking corruption, the correction of 
which required just those means which their 
Father hath used to bring them to a hearty 
repentance, and to greater holiness of life and 
conversation. 

^'0 Mary! Mary! I little thought of this 
trial," said poor Ellen, as she stood with Mary 
Marshall at little Willie's coffin. He looked 
so well — so like life — but ten days ago. My 
beautiful, my darling Willie! I shall never 
forget this lesson. If I had been at home, 
Willie would not have gone out with Edward, 
and all this trouble would have been spared us. 
0 Mary, how safe it is to do what is right ! 
Had I done so, I should not have to weep over 
Willie lost! Oh, that I had never gone to 
that party ! Surely this will be a lesson to 
me." 

''Dear Ellen," said Mary, ''it will not be 
so if you trust in it. Trust in Him who 
speaks to you by this means, and who only 
9* 



102 TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 

can give you strengtli to overcome in the hour 
of weakness. Will you not, by little Willie's 
breathless body, ask God to be your teacher, 
that you may learn all that this lesson is 
meant to teach ? Do, dear Ellen." 

Thus spoke Mary Marshall, who true in the 
time of sorrow, as she was in time of joy, needed 
no other attraction to her friend's house than 
the knowledge that the family were in affliction ; 
and, at the earliest intimation of Willie's illness, 
had hastened to assist them with all her warm 
and true-hearted affection burning brighter in 
her womanly breast, because the object of it 
suffered. 

Mary had but little experience, but she 
could see that Ellen was deficient in her view 
of the ends for which affliction was sent. She 
could not, as her mother (or as Miss Fellowes, 
perhaps, still better) would have done, point 
out the error of her friend ; but with earnest 
and touching sincerity, she took occasion to 
direct Ellen, with her broken heart, to the fact, 
that as affliction doth not spring out of the 
dust, so there was a cause for this. 

«'Yes," said Ellen in agony, ''1 know it — I 
feel it. It is a judgment on me for my leav- 
ing home, and for my so often encouraging 
Edward in deceit and falsehood." 



THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 103 

iiEllen, dear," said Mary, ^'I was a very little 
girl when my mother taught me, that the end, or 
the motive for correction was my good. She 
never punished me in the spirit of revenge. 
Her punishments indeed were always less se- 
vere when my fault was against herself, and 
never were they harsh or- revengeful in any 
way. If I did wrong, and she had to take 
away any of my enjoyments, or to send me 
away from her presence, she did it to make 
me think how ungrateful and disobedient and 
foolish I had been ; but the lesson which she 
taught me at the same time was this, that she 
corrected me for my profit as God corrects his 
children. Not as a tyrant, unjustly, revenge- 
fully ; but just to bring me to milder, kinder 
and holier thoughts and feelings. Now, I have 
never forgotten that lesson of mother's. I 
never hear of God's taking away a father 
from his children, or a child from its parent, 
but I think of it just as I did of mother's 
corrections. I was always wrong when she 
corrected me, and yet she loved me ; so with 
God. Depend on it, Ellen, we do wrong in 
looking so much upon God's reproof and cor- 
rection as terrible judgments, although there 
are cases where they are so. They are more 
often intended as checks and warnings. If 



104 



TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



Willie had not died, how long might Edward 
and you have gone on in concealment and sin ! 
How kind is it in God, instead of suddenly cut- 
ting off your eldest brother and sending him un- 
prepared, with a lie in his mouth, to the grave, 
to take little Willie, before he had been cor- 
rupted by evil example, and while, as we may 
hope, his tender heart was filled with love to 
the Saviour, and with desires to glorify him; 
for I do believe he had been made a partaker 
of the heavenly calling. Think of this, Ellen.'* 
Mary had spoken so earnestly, that she had 
not heard the gentle step of Edward and 
Annie, who had come together to look at the 
remains of their little brother, beautiful in 
death." Thus we linger over the casket from 
whence we know the jewel has been with- 
drawn, as though the spirit had left some por- 
tion of its essence in the cold clay, to which 
our souls cling, with fond and longing regret, 
until buried out of sight ; and we learn, by 
slow degrees, to transfer our affections from 
the mortal to the spiritual, and to think of our 
beloved ones, not as in the grave, but as above 
the skies. 

The sisters felt that part of Mary's appeal 
whick alluded to Edward, very keenly. They 
felt for him, and thought it almost hard. 



THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 105 



They felt for Mary too, thinking how sorry 
she would be that Edward was an unknown 
hearer of her sentiments. What was their 
surprise then, to see Mary step to the other 
side of the little coffin where Edward stood, 
and with a modest, but firm voice, ask him to 
forgive her if she had wounded him ; but, as 
she said, the sight of death took away reserve. 
The opinions of others, by the side of the 
grave, were almost disregarded, where the 
judgment of mortals was of so little value; 
where all things in time seemed of no worth 
compared with those of eternity. 

Will it not be a lesson to you^ Edward?" 
asked Mary, earnestly. ^«We have known 
one another since we were children, and I 
cannot but feel anxious for you, at this cri- 
tical time of your life, when God has sent you 
such a message as this. Do not disregard it." 

They were all three deeply affected : and all 
felt, at that moment, as though grief had truly 
changed them, and as though they needed no- 
thing more to turn them aside from folly and 
sin, than the sight of Willie in his last and 
narrow bed. Let us leave them there for 
a while. 



CHAPTER m 



MARY AT HOME. 

It is natural for young readers to imagine 
that the triumphs of the good are easy and 
natural ; and the discomfitures of the wicked, 
unfortunate rather than criminal. To Mary 
Marshall, it was not always easy to speak the 
truth. It required courage, self-denial, and 
sacrifice. It did not at all times make her 
appear in the eyes of the world lovely or 
attractive. She often, indeed, sufi'ered severe- 
ly in comparison with many less sincere and 
less sterling characters ; not in the estimation 
of those who truly loved and admired the 
principle which she maintained. But it was not 
every one who saw the necessity for speaking 
and acting truthfully under every circum- 
stance, as Mary Marshall did. Yet, that my 
readers may not suppose Mary's path was at 
all times so very smooth and easy — let us ac- 
company her to a few scenes in her simple and 
uneventful life ; and see how it required, even 
there, a bold heart and unflinching firmness. 
106 



MARY AT HOME. 



107 



Mary's mother was absent from home on a 
visit to some relations, and on her eldest 
daughter devolved, for the first time, the ma- 
nagement of the family and household. An old 
cook, and one other servant, formed Mrs. Mar- 
shall's establishment, and with eight children 
there was not much time for leisure or visiting. 
Mary received her directions from her mother 
on the evening before her departure with min- 
gled feelings. To be left six weeks her own 
mistress, had some charms for a girl of seven- 
teen ; and she had been so accustomed to ma- 
nage her younger brothers, that they would, she 
knew, be good and tractable. 

^'But the servants, mother. Suppose Anne 
should not mind me. I never find her very 
willing to listen to my hints, and I had rather 
manage any thing in the world than a servant." 

" The less you appear to ^ manage' any of the 
household, my dear, the better," said Mrs. Mar- 
shall. Go on quietly. Let your orders be 
few, but see that they are attended to." 

If any young person thinks Mary's six weeks 
of liberty enviable, they have certainly never 
tried the task of managing," as Mary called 
it, the servants of a father's house. At first, 
all went on very smoothly. Mary had no- 
thing to find fault with, and consequently 



108 



TRUTH IS EVERY THIXG. 



neither Anne nor the cook had any cause of 
grievance. 

One afternoon, however, Anne, whose busi- 
ness it was to take the two youngest children 
out before tea, was not at home for nearly an 
hour after her time. Mary was obliged to 
speak of this, and asked where she had been ? 
Anne informed her, very coolly, that she had 
been shopping; and on Mary's begging that it 
might not occur again, she bounced out of the 
room, leaving Mary in some anxiety. 

^'I know," she said, mother values Anne; 
if I offend her, I fear she will leave us, and 
yet how can I let her do wrong without telling 
her of it ? I wish I knew mother's secret. 
She never seems to give offence by her reproofs. 
I generally do." 

Her father, to whom the young housekeeper's 
complaints were addressed, smiled on his daugh- 
ter, and said — 

" Oh, Mary, it is a secret I think very few 
possess ; but never mind, my girl, go on ; you 
will find it out in time." 

^^Be so kind as not to boil the beef quite so 
much to-day," said Mary to the cook. Father 
complained of it, and my brothers left it on 
Saturday." 

''Well, Miss Mary, if I don't know how to 



MARY AT HOME. 



109 



boil a piece of beef, 'tis time I should. Per- 
haps you will come and do it yourself," was the 
ungracious reply. 

'^What should I have said?" thought poor 
Mary again 1 Father did not seem pleased 
with his dinner, and I am sure mother would 
have spoken. Xow, what should I have said ? 
I wonder how Ellen Norris manages her cook 
and Jane, — but perhaps they have not such 
dreadful tempers as our's have. 0 dear ! it is 
no treat to be a housekeeper, I see." 

Kor were the servants her only trials. Callers 
came ; and it was hard for Mary's temper to 
hear their inquisitive remarks. She had no 
notion of their interference, she said, and per- 
haps did not at all times take sufficient pains 
to disOTise this from them. 

Mrs. Mordan, a widow lady, who lived oppo- 
site, and a great manager," called to give the 
inexperienced girl a little of her advice. Mary 
held Mrs. Mordan in much veneration. Her 
mother always treated her with great respect, 
and she was aware that they were in some way 
indebted to Mrs. Mordan's generosity and kind- 
ness. But Mrs. Mordan had her imperfec- 
tions, and one of these was too great a love of 
dictating, or, as she would have called it,- 
advising. 

10 



110 



TRUTH IS EVEKY THING. 



" Well, Mary, I am come to see how you get 
on. Does Jane go on nicely ? I hope she is 
obedient to you." 

" Oh, I get on as well as I expected," said 
Mary. shall be very glad when mother 
comes home, for I don't know the secret yet of 
managing a household." 

I will tell you," said Mrs. Mordan. Be 
strict. Never allow them to answer you. That 
is my rule. I never allow a reply." 

Mary thought she should not like to be in Mrs. 
Mordan's service on those terms, but she had 
discretion enough not to say so ; and only re- 
marked that she should think it rather hard not 
to be allowed to defend herself. 

^'We may find fault unjustly, you know, 
Mrs. Mordan." 

Ah, my dear, you talk like a child. I tell 
you servants have no business to reply at all; 
but I am come to tell you that I would not 
allow visitors in the kitchen. I saw a man 
come out of your back-door last night. It is 
your duty to inquire, my dear." 

Mary's brother John, who was writing in the 
room, lifted up his eyes and laughed. 

" I am the man, Mrs. Mordan. It is well you 
did not ask the cook. How angry she would 
have been ! I dressed up last night to see if the 



MARY AT HOME. 



Ill 



cook would find me out, and she did not. She 
did let me in, because I pretended I came from 
Mr. Norris with a note for Mary. Mary, you 
look grave ; was there any harm in it ?" 

I don't like those plays, John. It is never 
a pleasure to me to succeed in taking any one 
in, and I hope you won't play them any more. 
You see this might have made great mischief, 
as such jokes often do." 

Mrs. Mordan, seeing that her interference 
was not needed, now asked Mary if she would 
join a party at her house, with her brothers, on 
the following evening, as she had a treat in 
store for them ; but what it was, she would not 
say. Mary accepted it with pleasure, for she 
knew her mother's confidence in Mrs. Mordan, 
and they had often been to her house before. 

It was a pleasant afternoon in August. The 
boys were to have a holiday, and the little 
fellows were delighted with the prospect of 
visiting Mrs. Mordan. She had always an 
abundance of amusement, for children of all 
ages; and her large gardens and pleasure- 
grounds alone were a treat to children whose 
indulgences were but limited. 

They arrived at Mrs. Mordan's house at five 
o'clock, the hour appointed, and there were car- 
riages already at the door, and the hall full of 



112 



TRUTH IS EVEHY THINa. 



merry young people, who welcomed the young 
Marshalls with great glee. They were uni- 
yersally beloved ; for their open manners and 
good-humoured dispositions at once inspired 
confidence and trust. Such a family of boys, 
high-spirited, bright children too, to be so ma- 
nageable and well-behaved, was the universal 
wonder of all less happy mothers, who found 
their two or three sons more trouble than Mrs. 
Marshall's eight. 

Where are we going, ma'am asked Mary 
of Mrs. Mordan, who was standing in the hall, 
giving orders to a servant, about large packages 
of refreshment. 

" We are going to Tuck's wood to tea, my 
dear, by the water. I have engaged two sail- 
ing boats for the purpose, and we shall have a 
charming afternoon." 

^'Oh, capital!" called out the young Nor- 
rises. ^^We have not been on the water for a 
long time. Thank you, Mrs. Mordan." 

Mary looked distressed, and yet she felt that 
the present was no time to hesitate. 

Thank you, ma'am, oh, thank you; but we 
must not go." 

"^oi go! my dear, why? What did you 
come for?" 

''You did not say, ma'am, that you were 



MARY AT HOME. 



113 



going on the water. If you had, I should not 
have dared to accept your invitation." 

Are you afraid of the water?" asked Miss 
Anson. 

^^Not in the least, Miss Anson." 
^'Why will you not go, then?" 
Because mother would be miserable at this 
moment if she knew I thought of such a thing. 
After Willie Norris died, mother said she 
hoped none of her boys would ever take their 
sport on the water ; and none of my brothers 
do love it yet, and I would not have them 
begin while my mother is away." 

^'My dear girl," said Mrs. Mordan, I hope 
you don't mean to persist in refusing. Do 
you suppose I would lead you into harm? 
Every care shall be taken of you." 

I do not doubt it, ma'am, but I dare not go." 
Mrs. Mordan now looked displeased. 
Well then, your elder brothers will go, at 
least." 

"No, ma'am, I hope not. They know I am 
in their mother's place, in her absence, and 
they will not go, I am sure." 

The boys looked grievously disappointed. 
The young people, with one accord, joined 
their entreaties to Mrs. Mordan's. 

"Miss Marshall is so very good," said ouq 
10* 



114 



TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



of the Misses Anson, I suppose she thinks the 
air of the public gardens we shall pass will taint 
her!" 

^^No/' said Mary warmly, ^^1 think there 
are more things to fear than the taint of the 
gardens." 

The company is not select enough for Miss 
Marshall. She considers dancing a sin, and 
would not even dance on a green any more 
than in a ball-room." 

^^Come, come. Miss Marshall," said Mrs. 
Mordan; ^^I should hope your mother knows 
me well enough to believe I would not tempt 
you to do Avrong. There can be no harm in 
your going under safe conduct like mine. — 
Now, James, are the carriages ready? — I have 
hired one on purpose for your party, and am 
surprised at your impoliteness in refusing." 

Cries of ''What a shame !" ''How absurd, 
how rude!" did not move Mary, who again 
respectfully declined going. 

''John," said she to her eldest brother, a 
boy of fifteen, — "If you knew how sorry I am 
to disappoint you, you would pity me. Come 
home, dear." 

"Why, Mary," replied John, " I really think 
this is heing over-particular. Mother did not 
forbid it." 



MARY AT HOME. 



115 



" How conld she forbid this particular thing, 
John? She never knew of Mrs. Mordan's 
intentions. You know her general prohibition : 
and you^ at least, are old enough to under- 
stand that we must attend to her known wishes, 
even when they are not expressed." 

•Happy are the children whose consciences 
have been rightly trained. John's conscience, 
thus appealed to, was at once convinced. With 
a sigh, he said, 

"Well, you are right, I dare say. Come 
along, boys," and there was dignity in John's 
'submission. He was not abashed by the laugh 
which went round the little circle at his ex- 
pense, for being governed by a sister. He 
was a merry boy, and said — 

i«Ah, laugh away. We are all under petti- 
coat government now, you know; so there's no 
fun in that joke. Come, Mary, dear. You 
crying! What next, I wonder!" 

'^I am not crying, John, for myself, but for 
your disappointment. You have acted so 
kindly, so nobly; but for your help I could 
not have brought all the children away. Oh, 
thank you, J ohn, you are my true friend always . ' ' 

I will not say that the little boys were quite 
as calm in giving up their promised treat as 
their elder brother and sister; but the evening 



116 TRUTH IS EVERY THINa. 

was a very happy one. The father, who was 
just sitting down to tea on their return, and 
expressed some surprise at their appearance, 
took them on a pleasant walk into the quiet 
country, and they all agreed that a land frolic 
with easy consciences was, after all, better than 
a water frolic with hearts ill at ease. 

On the mother's return how glad was the 
meeting, how sweet the commendation of 
Mary's housewifely skill, and how merrily 
they talked over the threatened rebellion of 
the servants and Mary's alarm, as of troubles 
past ; but they were silent about Mrs. Mordan's 
visit. It was only from the father that Mrs. 
Marshall learned of the steadfast resistance of 
Mary and John against that which they feared 
she would disapprove ; and it was with a thank- 
ful heart that Mary's mother acknowledged to 
her the next morning her grateful sense of the 
tenderness of her child's conscience, and the 
strength of principle— the gift, she trusted, of 
God's Holy Spirit — which could enable her to 
resist temptation and forego pleasure, to bear 
sarcasm, and act in her absence as she would 
have done in her presence. 

Mothers, would you have that joy? You 
must train your children as Mary's mother 
trained her — in the nurture and admonition 



MAEY AT HOME. 



IIT 



of the Lord^ and so walk before your children 
that they may follow your example without the 
loss of their souls. Let them say of you, what 
Mary once wrote of her mother to Miss Fel- 
lowes: — never heard my mother make any 
excuse or equivocation on any account what- 
ever. I never knew her say those polite lies 
which so many people speak in common con- 
versation. From a little child I can remember 
my entire confidence in mother. If my medi- 
cine was nauseous she never told me it was 
nice. If a lesson was difficult, she never 
cheated me into the belief that it was easy. I 
was a little girl of nine when my nurse gave 
me, by mistake, some medicine which was not 
intended for me, and then, terrified at what 
was done, cried out that she had poisoned me. 
I was dreadfully frightened. I cried and 
screamed in agony. The doctor w^as sent for^ 
and assured me the medicine would make me 
sick, but would not hurt me; that, indeed, I 
was not poisoned. I did not believe him, 
because when he once wanted to draw a tooth 
for me, he pretended that he was only going to 
feel if it was loose. I did not believe the 
nurse, because she once put a powder into my 
gingerbread, and had once or twice deceived 
me in little things. So I still screamed, and 



118 TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 

cried, and shook with terror, till the doctor 
himself was alarmed, and said I might kill 
myself by my excessive agitation. Mother at 
length came in, and sadly frightened she looked 
for a minute. I shall never forget my relief 
when I asked her if I was poisoned, to hear 
her say, «No, my dear, no; you are not' I 
laid my head on her shoulder and looked up 
into her eyes to read there what I never failed 
to read — the truth, and I was satisfied in an 
instant. All that the doctor had said, or that 
the nurse had said, failed; but my mother's 
assurance was enough. Her yea was yea, and 
her nay was nay, as they are now; and I trust 
that the example of her godly sincerity/ may be 
blessed to her daughter's everlasting good." 



CHAPTER X. 



YOUNO ladies' gossip. 

Grief liad passed away. The young hearts 
which had felt at Willie's grave as though they 
could never more beat gladly^ were^ six months 
after, as gay as ever. The affliction had not an- 
swered all the ends for which it had been sent. 

Edward, it is true, no longer went on his 
boating excursions. The sight of the wa- 
ter was to him intolerable, and never failed 
to recall the merry voice of Willie on that sad 
night, when the child had been so enraptured 
with the oars and the sails upon the river ; and 
had in the joy of his young heart said that 
there was but one thing in this world better 
than the river, and that was the glorious sea, 
to which he would soon go. 

But it was not turning away from water 
amusements, which, though innocent enough in 
themselves, had led Edward into evil, nor visits 
to Willie's grave, nor remembrances of Willie's 
words, touching and harrowing as they were to 
his warm affections, that were sufficient to change 

119 



120 



TRUTH IS EYEET THING. 



Edward N orris. He had yet to learn that it 
was in himself^ not in any outward circum- 
stances or temptations, that the true danger lay; 
that it was the whole current within that needed 
to be directed aright, and that afflictions and 
warnings were insufficient, except as means 
rightly improved, to alter the nature^ which 
was prone to evil, and that continually. He 
left home at last, but his career, in all its par- 
ticulars, it is not needful for the purpose of 
this little work to pursue. 

Without going great lengths in outward sin, 
the spring-time of Edward Norris's existence 
was passed in indifference to the most import- 
ant concerns of an intelligent and immortal 
being. To follow him to the summer season, 
and to go down to the autumn time of life, 
when the low, sad lament was uttered, "The 
harvest is past, the summer is ended, and I am 
not saved," were but to repeat an oft-told tale. 
It was the tale of Edward Norris, and is the 
sad, sad history of many thousands in this 
land of gospel light. Dear reader, will it be 
your history? Awalce^ thou that steepest! 
Arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee 
light ! 

The temptations of Ellen and Annie in 
their quiet home did not lessen as they grew 



YOZ^G ladies' gossip. 



121 



older. Ellen, deeply as slie felt her little bro- 
ther's death, and impressed as she appeared 
to be by the awfulness of the sudden removal 
of one so young, had a sort of bluntness in 
her moral perception of truth ; a bluntness in- 
creased by daily unwatchfulness, and that 
morbid desire for human approbation, which, 
as a child, led her to prefer the good opinion 
of a fellow-creature to the favour of God her 
Creator. 

Annie's disposition was different. She was 
the same light-hearted girl at sixteen that she 
had been at nine. Highly attractive both in 
person and in manners, she was much sought 
as a desirable visitor. Even old ladies liked 
to hear her rattle; and young parties were 
never complete without Annie. If there were 
any fear in the minds of mothers about the 
dulness of an evening entertainment, ^'Let 
us ask Annie Norris," they would say; "she 
can talk, and sing, and do any thing." 

Annie loved to oblige. She had really a 
pleasure in amusing and beguiling time, inde- 
pendently of the extreme gratification which 
it afforded her to talk. She had a lively sense 
of the ridiculous, but was at times uninten- 
tionally betrayed by her wit into sarcasm. 
She could talk well, and her mind, moreover, 
11 



122 TRUTH IS EVERY THma. 

was tolerably well cultivated. Though not 
deeply read, she was kind-hearted, and could 
we but add thoroughly sincere, she would, in- 
deed, have been an acquisition to any society. 
Her habit of exaggeration did not decrease 
with her growth. It tvas the particular form 
in which her carelessness of truth developed 
itself— 3. form, alas too, common with the 
young. 

What is exaggeration but a lie? Facts 
need no embellishment in conversation. Some 
one has wisely remarked that a child should 
be reproved if he reported an occurrence to 
have taken place in one window while it really 
happened in another,— so invaluable did he 
esteem accuracy in narration. 

Although a great favourite with her com- 
panions, her additions, in order to bring out a 
droll story with full effect, were at times more 
copious than even the lovers of fun and mar- 
vel could swallow. It was not uncommon for 
-more than one voice in a circle to cry out. 

Oh, Annie, that is one of your imaginations," 
or, «i Come, Annie, that is rather too much." 
Still, so strong was the young girl's faith in 
her powers of amusement, that she would be 
but little abashed, and take little pains to 
prove the truth of what she had uttered. 



YOUNG LADIES GOSSIP. 



123 



Such a popularity, however, is but short- 
lived, and the greatest talkers have sometimes 
the greatest trials to endure of neglect and 
even contempt. 

One evening, at a social party at a Mr. Tay- 
lor's, Annie was entertaining the company 
as usual with some of her random recollec- 
tions of a visit she had paid a short time pre- 
vious to an aged aunt of her father's, to whom 
she applied that despised epithet of spinster." 
She enlarged upon her meanness and the ex- 
traordinary dinners they used to have; the 
same joint, she said, appearing under so many 
different forms; one leg of mutton for five 
days, first as leg, secondly as hash, thirdly as 
minced, fourthly as a sort of rice mixture, and 
fifthly as an indescribable sort of stew. 

So ran on Miss Annie, and it was thought 
very amusing by most of her hearers, whose 
minds, not being much enlarged, entered with 
great zest into the trifling detail of Miss Nor- 
ris's housekeeping. The coffee was most stu- 
diously robbed of any thing deleterious in an 
exciting way, and the tea was of the same 
mild order of things. Indeed, the only strong 
things in Miss Norris's house were her opi- 
nions, and they were administered liberally 
enough. 



124 



TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



Thus was the young lady chattering in a 
very lively way, when a gentleman, who had 
been attracted by her animated face, came to 
the side of the room where she was sitting, 
to hear what could interest the listeners so 
much. ^'Perhaps she is not rich," said one 
of the auditors, ^^and that may be one reason 
for what you call her meanness." Oh, in- 
deed, she is," said Annie; ^'1 know that from 
good authority, but she is a screw. Her dress 
also is quite consistent with her housekeep- 
ing." 

^^Does she not give a great deal away?" 
said the elderly gentleman, who, first attracted 
by Annie's lively tongue, was now listening to 
her with a severe and altered expression. 

" I can only say, sir, I am not a pensioner 
of her's, nor did I ever see her give away 
any thing. There was a great boiling of bones 
sometimes in the kitchen, but to judge of 
their appearance in the parlour, I fear the 
poor, if the poor had them, had but a sorry 
repast." 

The gentleman w^as silent, and the conversa- 
tion was changed. 

^^Have you not cousins?" asked Mr. Ellis 
abruptly, when he could obtain a seat by Annie. 

" Oh, yes, sir, plenty of them." 



YOUNG ladies' GOSSIP. 125 



Have you any cousins who are not in afflu- 
ence ?" 

Annie reflected for a minutCj and said — 

"Oh, yes." 
Do you know that some of those cousins, 
in the late reverses of their father, are obliged 
to seek their own livelihood as governesses ?" 

" Oh yes, sir, to be sure," said Annie blush- 
ing, for she did not exactly like either the in- 
quisitorial tone of the old gentleman, or the 
forced confession that she had cousins who 
were obliged to earn their living. 

You do not know, perhaps, that Miss Norris 
has, for the last twelve months, assisted those 
girls out of an income by no means large ; 
not by giving them money or dresses — this 
would not have been such real kindness — but 
by paying for their instruction under the best 
masters, that they might be fitted for teachers. 
This may account a little for the appearance 
of the mutton in various forms ; but this is not 
all : I have a nephew, who is anxious to enter 
the sacred ministry. He is the eldest of many 
sons, and his father opposed it both from want 
of means and from want of sympathy with his 
desire. Miss Norris, who heard of the circum- 
stance, and knew" of the goodness of the young 
man, promised to meet the college expenses^ 
11* 



126 



TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



and has amply performed that promise. These 
are but a few of the acts of the ' mean' old 
lady, whose hospitality you have just been 
ridiculing." 

Annie felt really sorry. She was not an 
unkind girl, and she immediately expressed 
her regret that she had talked so- foolishly. 
^^But, sir/' she said, ^'I was only in joke, and 
really there was no harm in what I said of my 
aunt." 

Just because you could not, without telling 
a positive falsehood, say any real harm of Miss 
Norris ; but beware of the tongue, young lady. 
I am an old man, therefore receive a word of 
advice from me. I have, I assure you, known 
much mischief follow even from the thoughtless 
talk of a young lady at an evening party." 

Annie's tongue ran no more at random that 
evening, you may be sure. Her mortification 
in this instance was great, but it was soon for- 
gotten; and the next day she would possibly 
have repeated the offence, had opportunity or 
temptation been presented to her. 

One evening, not long after, at the Ansons, 
(who continued their patronage to Ellen and 
Annie,) the conversation turned on Mary Mar- 
shall. - 

^^It seemxS very extraordinary to me," re- 



YOUNG ladies' gossip. 



127 



marked Miss Fanny Anson, ^^that Mary Mar- 
sliall should be such a friend of yours. I can- 
not see any thing like similarity or congeniality 
in you." 

''Oh, we are not great friends," said Ellen, 
— which was true. Great friends Ellen Norris 
and Mary Marshall could never be. There 
was, as Miss Frances Anson remarked, no 
congeniality whatever. 

We are not great friends, but we were school- 
fellows," said Ellen; and strange to say, at this 
moment she felt ashamed of her acquaintance 
with a girl whose friendship many thought it a 
privilege to possess. The respect and affection 
of the true-hearted is indeed an honour. 

''I never liked Mary so well as Ellen did," 
remarked Annie. ''At school she was always 
so over-scrupulous. Oh, the sermons, the ora- 
tions, she used to make to Ellen and me !" 

"She has been very kind to us, too," inter- 
posed Ellen, whose memory reverted to Mary's 
faithful and watchful care by Willie's dying 
bed. 

"Oh, I don't doubt," said Miss Anson, "that 
she is a very good sort of person, but they are 
very vulgar people. Mrs. Marshall is no lady, 
and though they may be all very well, I don't 
think their acquaintance is the thing for you. 



128 



TRUTH IS EVERY THINa. 



They are not genteel enough to be your 
friends." 

It may seem difficult to account for the pique 
which the i^nsons appeared to entertain against 
persons so entirely out of their line as the 
Marshall's; but the fact was, that they could 
not but perceive, in spite of their adventitious 
circumstances of superiority, that Mary was 
as far above them in all important matters, as 
they considered themselves above her in sta- 
tion, gentility and fashion. Mary's mind was 
of no common order ; and although she was not 
what is usually termed an accomplished girl, 
she was not without those charms which sim- 
plicity and a well-disciplined mind never fail 
to throw over the manner and deportment. 

The Misses Anson were greatly scandalized 
and astonished, on another occasion, at the 
appearance of Mary Marshall, at the house of 
a gentleman, who came up even to their stand- 
ard of gentility and eligibility. Still more 
were they shocked to see, that this was evi- 
dently not her first visit there; and their 
mortification knew no bounds, when they heard 
Mrs. Holland, the lady of the house, say, in 
answer to some inquiry — 

" Oh, — that girl in white, — she is Miss Mar- 
shall, a most engaging, interesting girl: I do 



Youxa ladies' gossip. 



129 



believe, if she were to have an audience with 
the queen, she would be as unaffected and as 
much at ease as she is now : — she is so perfectly 
simple-hearted." 

Perhaps she has seen a good deal of so- 
ciety," returned the lady. 

No, indeed, she is the eldest of a large 
family, and visits very little. I had some 
difficulty in persuading her mother to let her 
come here to-night ; but really, I think her so 
very desirable a companion for my daughters, 
that I am quite anxious to cultivate her ac- 
quaintance for them. There are so few in the 
neighbourhood that I could desire for their 
intimate associates, but Miss Marshall will do 
them good, I know. Our girls' governess is a 
sister of an old teacher of Mary's, and she 
says that a more truthful and transparent 
character she never saw." 

can quite believe it," replied the lady. 
^''She is certainly far from handsome, but I 
think I never saw so beautiful an expression 
of countenance. She looks as if she were so 
entirely at peace." 

All this the Misses Anson heard, and re- 
ported to Ellen and Annie, Avho were with a 
little knot of girls in another part of the room. 

^^She certainly is truthful enough," said 



130 TKUTH IS EVERY THINa. 

Annie, who was afraid of appearing to be an 
intimate friend of Mary Marshall, after Miss 
Anson's introduction, which, as may be sup- 
posed, was by no means flattering. « I hope 
there will be no dancing here to-night, for 
Mary would turn up her eyes in horror." 

"Oh, is she that sort of girl?" inquired one 
of the group. ''Well, who is she, and how^ 
does she come here?" 

''Her father is nothing but a corn-factor, 
or something of the sort," replied Miss Anson. 
"Come, Ellen, you know; what is it?" 

Ellen, thus appealed to, said she believed 
Miss Anson w^as right, and would gladly have 
changed the conversation, but it was arrested 
by a most extraordinary occurrence. Mary 
Marshall was seated at the piano ! How did 
the hearts of a dozen or more envious young 
ladies beat, as Mary, with modesty, yet with 
no appearance of flutter and confusion, yielded 
to Mrs. Holland's request, that she would sing. 
One or two hoped it would be a failure, that 
she might break down : and most of them were 
quite amazed at the self-possession (confidence, 
some called it) of a girl like her singing before 
so large a company. 

" How very strange ! but she really sings 



YOUNG ladies' GOSSIP. 131 



wonderfully well," remarked one of the young 
ladies. 

"1^0 wonder," said Annie, "she lias actually 
been taking lessons of Signer Alboni, who has 
been teaching singing on a new system." 

"Miss Marshall taking lessons of Alboni! 
Impossible, Annie," exclaimed Miss Anson; 
"my dear child, he charges monstrously." 

"It is true, nevertheless," said Annie, "and 
they have a new grand piano. Mary is quite 
coming out, I assure you." 

"But the Marshalls are so poor, Miss Nor- 
ris?" 

"Yes, I think it very strange. Mary has 
had a great deal spent on her education since 
she left school. I cannot imagine what Mr. 
Marshall means by it. Mary told me herself 
she was taking lessons of Alboni, or I could 
not have believed it. So I suppose this is a 
sort of advertisement of the Signer, to recom- 
mend him to the patronage of the young ladies 

of W , for I understand he has very few 

pupils. Is it not ridiculous, — John Marshall 
too is going to Paris to finish his education ; 
oh, they are coming out grandly, I can assure 
you." Annie spoke thus from pique, but she 
little thought the mischief she was doing. 

A few days after, Mr. Marshall returned to 



132 



TEUTH IS EVERY THINa. 



dinner with a cloud on his brow. There were 
no mysteries nor concealment in that family, 
and to the mother's inquiring look, Mr. Mar- 
shall said, "'Not now, my dear; after dinner I 
will tell you." 

When the cloth was removed, and the chil- 
dren were dismissed, with the exception of 
Mary and the two elder boys, Mr. Marshall at 
once explained the cause of his uneasiness. 

'^I have been to the bank this morning, my 
dear, intending to speak to Mr. Anson about 
some matters of business. He, however, called 
me irfto his private room, and apparently wished 
to have a little conversation with me. He is a 
pompous man, you know, though kind-hearted, 
I believe, yet his patronizing airs are some- 
what hard to bear. But I have received too 
much kindness from him to mind that much. 
Well, I was rather puzzled with Mr. Anson's 
expression of face. He looked very hard at 
me, and said he hoped my business went on 
well. I told him I had every reason to be 
satisfied, and that owing to his kind accommo- 
dation I believed I might speak hopefully and 
confidently about it. 

^^'Well, well,' he said, hope so too, don't 
mention that ; only I w^ish to give you a hint 
or two, Marshall. Don't bring up your family 



Youxa ladies' gossip. 



133 



■with high notions. You must have a fine busi- 
ness indeed, with those eight boys of yours, to 
make it wise for you to do this.' I looked at 
him in amazement; that I should stand in need 
of any such caution was perfectly inexplicable. 
I must have looked, I dare say, as I felt, quite 
bewildered. I have often had it said to me, 
Give your children more advantages; you 
really don't go out enough, — you don't take 
your proper position; but I never have been 
warned yet against giving my children high 
notions. I said as much. 

u (, Why, I understand,' he said, ^ you are going 
to send your boys abroad. Is not a plain Eng- 
lish school good enough for them ; and I may as * 
well tell you I was not a little astonished to hear 
of your daughter's taking lessons of Alboni; 
why, Marshall, I would not consent to the ex- 
pense for my own daughters ; there V 

All I could say in reply was, that I was per- 
fectly ignorant of any intentions of sending my 
boys abroad, or of permitting my daughter to 
take lessons of Alboni; yet I left him uncon- 
vinced, I know, and I am excessively annoyed 
about it. That Mr. Anson should think me 
capable of such dishonesty, — for it would be 
nothing better, — I cannot bear." 

Mary, whose countenance underwent many 
12 



134 TRUTH IS EVERY THINa. 

changes during her father's speech, said, It 
is strange, dear father, that the first time I 
ever concealed any thing from you, should have 
brought me into trouble. I cannot yet think 
how this has come about, but I will tell you all 
I know about it. You know how often you 
have wished John were a better French scholar, 
on account of his being obliged to refuse that 
situation in the insurance-office, because he 
could not speak French so fluently as you 
thought needful. Miss Fellowes' brother, who 
is in Paris, has offered to give John a home in 
his family, if we could manage to pay the 
expenses, and I felt as if I would do any thing 
to get a little money for the purpose. I con- 
fided my anxiety to Miss Fellowes. Her sis- 
ter, who is governess at Mr. Holland's, heard 
of it through her, and Mrs. Holland was so 
kind as to allow me to take lessons, of Alboni 
with her daughters, without any expense what- 
ever. This was a month ago; and, as Miss 
Fellowes is not musical, I have now the privi- 
lege of teaching Mrs. Holland's youngest little 
girls, as well as their cousins. Mother knew 
I had this secret. I told her so, and she 
trusted me, did you not, mother? But oh, 
father!. Who can have gossipped about me in 
this way?" 



YOUNa ladies' gossip. 



135 



"I should not wonder/' said John, ^'if it 
were one of the Misses Norris. Did you ever 
tell them, now?" 

^<0h," said Mary, (a sudden light dawning 
upon her,) ''that is it. Annie Norris asked 
me one day, in joke, if I intended to take 
lessons of Alboni. I could not deny it, but I 
entreated her never to name it, and explained 
my reasons. Oh, what a mischief-making girl 
that Annie Norris is !" 

''My dear Mary," said her father, "I am 
fully satisfied. We can soon set matters right^ 
I hope ; but your disappointment I am sorry 
for. Cheer up, my young music-teacher: I 
little thought you were turned professor, thougk 
I always liked your singing and playing." 



CHAPTER XI. 



VISIT TO THE BANKEE. 

<:iNow, Mary dear, be merciful to the Nor- 
rises," was Mrs. Marshall's charge to Mary, 
as she set out to demand an explanation of 
Annie- You are not yet certain that Annie 
did tell Miss Anson. It is only your supposi- 
tion." 

Mary shook her head. She was much 
tempted to call on Mrs. Holland, and tell her 
of her disappointment ; but on second thoughts, 
she resisted the temptation, for she knew it 
would very much prejudice her mind against 
the Norrises. 

Ellen and Annie met Mary coldly. Each 
was so conscious of having acted the part of 
a false friend to Mary, that they could not re- 
ceive her with cordiality or openness. There 
is nothing which makes us more bitter than 
the consciousness of having injured another. 

^^I am come," Mary began, ^^to ask you, 
Annie, if you ever told the Ansons of my 
taking music-lessons of Alboni ? I need not 
136 



VISIT TO THE BANKEE. 



13T 



ask you, however. No one but yourself knew, 
so no one else could have told them. Oh, 
Annie, if you had asked such a thing of me, 
I could not have betrayed you, and how could 
you add that my brothers were going to ex- 
pensive schools in France! Who told you 
thatr 

Annie was silent. To deny any thing she 
had done to Mary Marshall Avas almost impos- 
sible, even for a more apt deceiver than Annie 
Norris. She did not, therefore, attempt it, 
but replied, with as much effrontery as she 
could assume, that she did not see the necessi- 
ty for having concealed it at all, and that for 
her part she hated mysteries, and was a very 
improper person to trust with secrets on that 
account. 

" It is rather strange then, Annie, that you 
were so anxious to discover mine ; but why, 
since you knew the truth, did you not tell it 
literally ? Mr. Anson has heard of my taking 
lessons of Alboni ; has heard that my brothers 
are going to school abroad ; and that we have 
bought a splendid grand piano. The last in- 
formation you never had from me'' 

Annie blushed. 
Shall I recall our conversation to you 
now? You asked me the other day, (in joke 
12^ 



138 



TEUTH IS EVEEY THINa. 



I suppose,) if I intended taking lessons of 
Alboni. I told you I had intended it, for I 
could not tell a lie, and it would have been an 
equivocation to have answered, no. But do you 
recollect I told you at the same time, that a 
friend of mine had generously paid for those 
lessons? Remember that^ Annie." 
Annie did not reply. 
Remember that. You forgot it when you 
told the Ansons that I was taking lessons of 
Alboni." 

^^I never said, Mary, that you paid for 
them." 

^^No, but you led the Ansons to suppose 
that my father was paying an extravagant sum 
for my accomplishments, and thus intention- 
alljT- left a false impression on their minds, by 
keeping back part of the truth. Now, re- 
member what I told you about John. Did I 
ever say that my brothers were going to 
school abroad ?" 

Annie could not say — she forgot, or that she 
believed Mary said something of the sort. 

You do not believe it, Annie, — you know 
you do not. Don't you recollect I told you, 
that John had just lost a situation, because 
father dared not assure the gentleman about 
to employ him in an insurance-office, that he 



VISIT TO THE BANKER. 



139 



was a good French scholar, and that Miss 
Fellowes' brother, who is residing in France, 
had offered to take John for a twelvemonth, if 
we could pay his travelling, and other slight 
expenses for the time? Don't you remember 
this?" 

Annie assented. ■ • 

^^How then could you say that father 
thought an English education not good enough 
for my brothers; that, therefore, they were 
going abroad. The story about the new piano 
I cannot account for. Vv^e have, as you may 
see, no instrument but that which mother had 
when she was married. And now I will tell 
you the mischief you have done. You have 
shaken Mr. Anson's confidence in my father. 
He was, this very day, going to ask the help 
and advice of his banker at a very critical 
point of his affairs, and was met by the news, 
that his children were being brought up with 
high and extravagant notions. What repara- 
tion can you make for this ? How could he 
then ask assistance from Mr. Anson? My 
own disappointment is nothing, compared with 
father's distress. May you never know the 
evils of a false friend, Ellen and Annie, but 
I fear you will have few true ones. — I do 
not/' resumed Mary, after a pause, ^^mean to 



140 TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 

be unkind or severe. You must forgive me if 
I have appeared so, but you cannot wonder at 
my feeling strongly on the subject. From 
strangers this would have pained me less, but 
I feel it from you very much, and scarcely 
know how I can have intercourse with you 
in^ future. I must have confidence in my 
friends." 

^ Ellen and Annie sat for a few moments in 
silence after Mary's departure. At length 
the latter said, ^^We must go and set this 
matter right with Mr. Anson. Had we not 
better, Ellen?" 

Erom this, however, when it came to the 
point, they both shrank. The Misses Anson 
were gone that very day to town, and to ap- 
proach their father with the confession that 
they had exaggerated their tale,— nay, invented 
it,— appeared to both sisters impossible. What 
should they do ? Annie thought it would do no 
harm to wait a few days, and Ellen quite agreed 
with her, and so they waited. In the mean 
time Mr. Marshall could perceive that his 
banker was growing more and more unaccom- 
modating. He could not communicate with 
him on the subject which weighed upon his 
mind, because he saw that he was as unwilling 
to give credit to his assertions as to afford ad- 



VISIT TO THE BANKER. 141 



clitional credit to his account. The thing at 
last became serious. The state of trade was 
alarming, and Mr. Marshall, who was too 
honourable to disguise the matter, or further 
to involve the property and interest of others, 
thought it right to consult a few of his principal 
creditors in reference to the state of his affairs. 

And what did Mary do? She did not 
sink ; — you may be sure of that. She felt that^ 
however innocently, she had been one cause 
of her father's difficulties ; and one afternoon 
she left home and applied for admission to the 
private room of the rich Mr. Anson ; a man 
to whom Mary had never spoken in her life, 
and whom she was wont, in her simplicity, to 
consider of as much consequence as a prime 
minister himself. 

The clerk stared, and informed the applicant 
that Mr. Anson was not to be disturbed. Some 
gentleman was with him. 

'^l can wait^ sir," she replied. 
There was a little joking went round the 
counter, and Mary did not feel particularly com- 
fortable. She would have given any thing to see 
a friend— an acquaintance only— in that busy 
little banking-house, — some one to conduct her 
into the presence of Mr. Anson, but this was 
not her happiness. The gentleman came outj 



142 TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



and Mary Marshall asked permission to go in. 
The door was opened, she passed the thres- 
hold, and stood before Mr. Anson. He had 
his watch in his hand, and Mary, seeing her 
minutes were numbered, said, 

" Sir, I have come to speak to you about mv 
father." ^ 

''What is your name?" asked the banker, 
abruptly. 

Mary gave the necessary information. 
^ ''Well, Miss Marshall, what then? My 
time is very limited,— excuse me 

" I am only come to assure you, sir, that 
what you have heard about my father's ex- 
travagance is untrue — all untrue." 

" My dear child, it is no business of mine. 
Don't suppose that has influenced me. You 
know nothing of business, my little lady: it is 
the depressed state of trade that has brought 
your father into trouble." 

"Sir," said Mary, respectfully, ^^will you 
answer me this question. Would you have 
been thus hard on my father ten days ago?" 

"I don't know, indeed," said Mr. Anson. 
"Yes, yes, you don't understand accounts — 
yes, the account has run too long." 

"I do not understand accounts," said Mary, 
— "not a banker's account, certainly, — but I 



VISIT TO THE BANKER. 143 

know your mind has been influenced by bear- 
ing of a daughter of your debtor spending a 
large sum for music-lessons ; of his sons go- 
ing to a foreign school ; of extravagant pur- 
chases and pretensions. Without understand- 
ing accounts, sir, I can understand well how 
this has affected your mind, for I know you 
have no other reason to doubt either my 
father's judgment or honour. If you have, 
you are the first man that ever did.'' 

i^Time — time — Miss Marshall, you have 
not learned the value of that," said Mr. Anson, 
who was apparently absorbed in a little 
memorandum during this speech. 

His hand was on the bell, but Mary darted 
forward. 

" Mr. Anson, I am sure that you will never 
repent an act of kindness. Hear me but one 
moment. Mrs. Holland paid for my music- 
lessons. My father knew nothing about them. 
Oh ! concealment is always foolish, but I wish- 
ed to surprise them. If I had told him, I 
should have acted better, and this would not 
have happened. I have been learning music 
in order to teach, sir, and to help my brother 
to a situation. I am conscious of no other 
extravagance. I know, indeed, there has been 
none. My younger brothers have been re- 



144 TRUTH IS EVERY THINa. 

moved from school^ and my mother and I 
teach them ourselves. You have been misin- 
formed, sir; but I acknowledge I did foolishly 
to keep my music-lessons and my intentions a 
secret. I was fearful of failing in my plan, 
or I should not have done so ; but, Mr. Anson^ 
you will believe me, will you not ?" 

Mr. Anson, accustomed as he was to ap- 
peals from all kinds of applicants, could not 
fail to be interested in the earnest and yet 
unaffected manner of this young girl. She 
was neither beautiful nor elegant. Her sim- 
ple print dress and plain straw bonnet, were 
not of a particularly fashionable make, but 
Mary needed no adornment. Her clear eye 
never quailed before Mr. Anson. It followed 
him every moment. If he looked down Mary 
looked at him ; if he looked up, there was 
Mary's eye, fixed on his. At length he 
said — 

^^Well, Miss Marshall— well— we will see 
about it; good day." 

He opened the door for her this time, but 
Mary was firm. 

^^'Yes, sir, but you have many things to 
think about. It will matter little to you, but 
it will matter very much to my poor father 
whether you will see him now or by-and-by. 



VISIT TO THE BANKER. 



145 



I heard a note from you to father, but a short 
time since, in which you said, ^ There is no 
man living I would trust sooner than you.' 
You are right, Mr. Anson, for who should 
know my father better than I do. He never, 
never broke his word to one of us. He is 
true at home^ sir. Oh ! Mr. Anson, trust him 
yet. He will never deceive you, he cannot^ 
sir. He knows not how. If I am bold, sir, 
forgive me, I do so love my father ; only try 
him, sir, will you?" 

Mr. Anson was a man of the world, and 
quite accustomed to sce7ies^ but there v/as that 
in Mary's quiet, yet earnest manner, which 
overcame him. 

Well, my dear, well, send your father to 
me," was the speech of the old gentleman this 
time, "and I will see what I can do." 

At what time, sir?" inquired the perse- 
vering daughter. 

'^At six o'clock, at my own house." 

How light was Mary's step home ! and how 
joyful her message to her father. The meet- 
ing between Mr. Marshall and Mr. Anson^ 
was satisfactory, and it was with a heart full 
of joy that Mary received her father's good- 
night kiss. 

Father," she said^ after evening worship^ 
13 



146 



TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 



with her arm around his neck, ^^this is the 
first, and it shall be the last time I have ever 
concealed any thing from you. Have you 
forgiven me ?" 

Oh yes, Mary, there is nothing to for- 
give; and had there been, you have made 
amends." 

i^And now, father, that mother is strong 
again, shall I be of more use to you by going 
out, or by remaining at home ? I have no 
wish to leave home, but I am ready to do it 
if you think it best. I have not named it be- 
fore, for I have had my own bright schemes, 
that my music-lessons would bring in a little 
money, but I cannot but see that I shall have 
little honour in my own town ; and if mother 
can spare me, I ought, perhaps, to use the 
education you have given me, in teaching 
others." 

''Look at your seven brothers, my dear. 
There is, I think, scope for your teaching- 
talents at present ; and though I shall never be 
a rich man, yet, Mary, we will not part if 
possible. Parting will come soon enough. Let 
us hold together while we can. — John, my 
boy, there are other ways of advancement, 
besides a clerkship in an insurance-office, and 
I shall want you at home for the present. 



VISIT TO THE BAXKEE. 



147 



The proof you have received of your sister's 
love, must, I am sure, be very grateful to you, 
and don't let us look too much to second 
causes. This disappointment is not a thing 
of chance, depend upon that. There is One 
ivho knows what is good for us, better than 
we know ourselves, who will sometimes lay 
low our fondest hopes, and frustrate our fa- 
vourite schemes, to teach us how dependent 
we are upon him. He has provided for us all 
these years," said the good father, looking 
affectionately at his wife, and elder children, 
"and we will seek no other guide now. He 
will direct us aright. There are four words 
of divine truth with which we may happily 
sink to sleep to-night, my dears : 



*'The Lord will provide. " 



CHAPTER XII. 



CHARITY HOPETH ALL THINaS. 

It would be a pleasant task to trace out 
the history of each member of this happy 
family. Not that they were exempt from 
trials and difficulties. IsTo great accession of 
fortune came to Mr. Marshall's relief, but as 
a straight-forward man of business, he was 
moderately successful, and the temporary diffi- 
culty in which he had been placed, appeared 
to raise him up many friends, who interested 
themselves in obtaining situations for the elder 
boys, and facilitating the education of the 
younger children. 

Mary was not obliged to leave home, a 
sphere which she was eminently calculated to 
adorn. Before taking leave of her, we will 
peep at her and her mother, in their busy 
parlour, hard at work for the boys. John was 
going to his new situation in the following 
week, and Harry was to take his place in his 
father's counting-room. Edwin and James 
were to go to a good school, in the nei^hbour- 
148 



CHARITY HOPETH ALL THIXaS. 149 



hood, at the beginning of the year, and the 
four little ones were to be Mary's charge at 
home. 

About this time, Anne, their maid, left them 
to be married; and one evening while Mr. 
Marshall and Mary were considering how they 
should supply her place, an applicant was an- 
nounced. It was Mary, the old nurse-maid of 
the Norrises! The Marshalls did not recog- 
nise her, but on making inquiries they found 
that it was the same to whom Ellen, in mis- 
taken kindness, had given a fair character to 
a lady, some months before. In spite of the 
advice of Miss Fellowes, Ellen Norris had 
yielded to Mary's petition to write her a 
character, through which she might obtain a 
situation, Mary giving as an excuse for not 
applying to her last place, the fact of her mis- 
tress having left the country for a residence at 
a distance. 

This piece of deception entirely failed, how- 
ever. Although she procured the place she 
did not retain it. As might have been ex- 
pected, she yielded to temptation, and though 
not convicted of any gross act of theft, she 
proved so habitually false in her conduct, that 
she was dismissed in great disgrace. She had 
passed three months of privation, sufferings 



150 



TRUTH IS EVERY THIXa. 



and illness, when slie heard of the place at 
Mrs. Marshall's. She applied for it with faint 
hopes of obtaining it, indeed, but from that 
despair which her desolate and friendless situa- 
tion induced. Her tale was soon unfolded, 
and the poor girl, who no longer attempted de- 
ception, and melted by the kind interest which 
Mrs. Marshall's voice and manner evinced, was 
faithfully correct in her narrative of her past 
history. 

Mrs. Marshall pointed out to her the im- 
policy, as well as the sin, of her conduct. 

The temptation was great, ma'am, very 
great. No one would have taken me, know- 
ing my real character, so I thought my only 
way VN^as to go under a false one. I see it was 
wrong, but then I had no strength to do right. 
A better way would have been to deserve a 
true one. I know it all, but I was starving ; 
not that I believe want is any excuse for dis- 
honesty or falsehood. Nor do I think that 
God ever long suffers such things to prosper. 
So I have been thinking for the last three 
months, that I have laid out of employment. 
My wages are spent, and I came to you by the 
advice of Mrs. Norris's cook. She did not 
give me any idea of your hiring me, but she 
said you would give me the best advice, and I 



CHAKITY HOPETH ALL THINGS. 151 

am come to you as a last hope. I have seen 
you often, though I dare say you forget me. 
My mistress, Mrs. Norris, was a kind one, 
ma'am, and had I stayed with her I should 
never have been as I am ; and yet, I do not 
know. No circumstances seemed to do me 
good. It was my own bad heart that led me 
astray. I see that now, but, Mrs. Marshall, 
ma'am, to come to the point, will you try me ? 
I do not promise. I scarcely dare hope I shall 
succeed, but will you watch me, and give me 
a trial ? Injure you, I feel sure I could not, 
but you know that I have been a liar so long 
that it is almost a habit." 

Mrs, Marshall scarcely knew what reply to 
make. Mary looked anxiously on her mo- 
ther's countenance. 

^^I have children, Mary; if I had not, I 
would try you, but I dare not expose them to 
the effects of your example. You must have 
something to do with them, you know, and 
poor Mrs. Norris always thought her chil- 
dren's character suffered from your early les- 
sons to them. I believe, and hope you see 
the evil of your past life, and, indeed, I would 
not be severe upon you, but how can I risk my 
children's present and eternal welfare for 
you?" 



152 TKUTH IS EVEKY THING. 

Oh, ma'am/' said Mary, I cannot wonder, 
and if I did not hope that I was changed, 
that I really hate the sin which I have been 
a slave to so many years, I would not ask 
you." 

i^But, Mary, you have had severe lessons 
before — what confidence can I have in your 
present state of sorrow and anxiety? Have 
you never felt miserable before, and, after 
making resolutions, been as bad as ever? 
You have had good mistresses. One I knew 
well, and surely if you fell into temptation 
while with her, I cannot hope to have influ- 
ence over you." 

i'Yes, ma'am, I cannot deny the truth of 
what you say, but as I was then, I do not be- 
lieve an angel could have kept me from sin- 
ning; but" 

'^But what, Mary?" 

"It seems presumptuous in me to say so 
to you, ma'am, and it is early too to speak of 
it, for I have found out my deceitfulness of 
heart so often ; but it is not my heart that I 
trust, ma'am, this time. When I left my last 
place, I should have perished, I think, but a 
kind widow — you know her, ma'am — Mrs. 
Frost— took me in as a lodger. Then I fell 
ill, for I was so wretched, I felt sometimes as 



CHARITY HOPETH ALL THINaS. 153 

if I should destroy myself. As I lay six 
weeks on a sick-bed, I had time enough to 
think, and to turn my heart inside out, if I 
may say so. I found no comfort there. 
Then I asked myself, what it was in me, that 
always made me, in spite of my good resolu- 
tions — and I have had them, ma'am, times and 
often — ^what it was that made me such a lying, 
deceitful girl? How it was that I was car- 
ried away by my habits of falsehood ? Then 
I felt, as if it were my fate, and as though I 
could not help it. Mrs. Frost used to talk 
very kindly to me, and gave me good advice, 
and she read to me out of the Bible, a book I 
had read but little, as you may suppose, for 
years. The words that struck me most were— 
^ Without me ye can do nothing.' 

^^Now, I felt, I had never asked God to 
help me yet ; not in earnest I mean, because 
I had never seen that my whole self needed 
to be made new ; that there was, in short, no- 
thing to be done with my old bad nature. I 
had always thought before, that if I had been 
some one else, or in some other circumstances, 
I should do better. I told Mrs. Norris I 
thought I should have less temptation as 
housemaid than as nurse, and the dear lady 
gave me the trial; and so I was always think- 



154 TRUTH IS EVEEY THING. 



ing, but at last I was taught the real state of 
the case." 

"And what was that, Mary?'' 

" Why, ma'am, that 'my heart was deceit- 
ful above all things, and desperately wicked.' 
I had often been told so before, but I had 
never felt it. This is why, ma'am, I think, 
and hope, that you may depend on my sorrow. 
It is very bitter, ma'am, more so than you 
may think. My whole life seems wasted. If 
you will not try me, can you at least tell me 
how you think I may get a living. Mrs. 
Frost is kind, but she is very poor. I would 
take in washing, or any thing, but I am not 
strong yet, and I cannot bear to live on her." 

Miss Marshall, whose interest in the con- 
versation was extreme, felt a little disappoint- 
ed to hear her mother still say that she could 
make no promise ; and when the servant had 
retired, she broke forth into earnest entrea- 
ties to try the poor woman, at least for a time. 

Before long, Mrs. Frost, with whom Mary 
had been lodging, appeared. She was a re- 
spectable but poor widow, and her character 
had so long been known to Mrs. Marshall, as 
a good and consistent person, that the few 
earnest and hopeful words she .spoke for her 
lodger, encouraged her to make the trial. 



CHARITY HOPETH ALL THINGS. 155 



<«Slie has suffered much, ma'am," said Mrs. 
Frost, — she was almost given over, after she 
left her last place, and I took her in from 
pity, for I knew her father and mother ; and 
her being a sinner was no reason why I should 
look down upon her, so I took her in. I was 
very shy of placing much reliance on her at 
first. I got good Mr. Welsh to come and visit 
her, and he was very faithful with her. ^No 
one,' he used to say, ' likes the consequences 
of sin; no one, my girl, likes punishment; 
but is it the fear of suffering you are sorry 
for, or is it the thought of the goodness and 
holiness of Him you have offended, that makes 
you weep V I quite believe, ma'am, she is 
sorry now, and that with a right sort of sor- 
row. Won't you try her, ma'am ?" 

And Mrs. Marshall did try her. She bore 
the disapprobation of a great many of her 
more cautious friends, for running such a risk, 
but she believed that if she erred, she erred 
on the side of mercy. 

Well, ma'am, you have more faith in pro- 
fessions, than I," said Mrs. Mordan — "to take 
a girl out of prison into your family. I sup- 
pose you know she is a thief and a liar." 

know her history," said Mrs. Marshall, 
in reply to this, and similar remarks. I know 



156 TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 

she has been Tvhat you describe, but I believe 
her to be truly penitent." 

" Oh, do not trust too much to the penitence 
of a girl who was ruined by her own miscon- 
duct. I think we should set up a high stand- 
ard, or servants will be encom-aged to do 
wrong, and grow bold, thinking they have but 
to profess sorrow, and will be set up again." 

As we cannot see the heart, Mrs. Mordan, 
this is all we have to depend upon with our 
fellow-creatures, till we giro them time to 
show the fruits of true repentance. Mary's 
conduct has been, after all, but a strong pic- 
tm-e of our own to God. The shadows may 
be deeper, but we are poor judges, I think, of 
degrees of sin. Though we may not have 
broken the moral law in the very way which 
Mary has done, we have still all broken it, 
and are, to the best of masters, but unprofitable 
servants. Suppose he spurned us, when we 
went to him with our confessions, as we are 
disposed to do the sinners that appeal to us^ 
which of us, think you, would have a place in 
his rest above ? I know what you would say. 
It is all very well, but not practicable. Now, 
I do not believe that there is a duty imposed 
upon us in the Bible, that is not practicable. 
He who taught us to pray, ^ forgive us our 



CHARITY HOPETH ALL THINGS. 157 



trespasses as we forgive tliem that trespass 
against us,' meant practical forgiveness. If, 
as I believe, Mary has received forgiveness of 
our heavenly Father, how can I withhold 
mine ? To say we forgive, is not enough. It 
is like bidding the hungry to be filled and 
clothed when we give them neither food nor 
clothing, to tell them we wish the poor, 
desolate and erring ones well, and yet hold 
out no hand to help them. On this principle 
I have tried several. On the same principle 
I gave my present valuable cook a trial, seven 
years ago, when she came to me with a very 
blemished character. All my servants have 
not turned out so well, I confess, but there is 
a blessing promised to the merciful, is there 
not, ma'am? And who shall say that he 
needs not that mercy?" 

It would be unreasonable to suppose that 
Mary's character was ever remarkable for can- 
dour or sincerity, but she watched and prayed 
against her easily besetting sin, and great was 
the joy of her mistress, to see that she gained 
ground, and that instead of denying her faults, 
she was daily more ready to confess them, and 
less disposed to excuse herself for any omis- 
sions and offences. 

Mrs. Marshall was indeed particularly care- 
14 



158 TEUTH IS EVERY THING. 

ful to avoid tempting Mary to evil. She rarely 
asked her a question relative to an error of 
which she merely suspected her; and never 
taxed her with a fault unless she were quite 
certain of the fact; — a caution which is too 
little observed by us to the weak and erring. 
There were times of discouragement in Mary's 
history as a servant, but there was no time in 
which Mrs. Marshall repented of the course 
she had taken ; and so potent is example, that 
not many weeks had passed, before Mary re- 
ceived lessons in that truthful family which 
the sterner judges in her previous places of 
service had failed to convey. 

^'Oh! Miss Marshal V said Mary one even- 
ing, as she was assisting her young mistress in 
some work, "what would I give to be as little 
afraid of speaking the truth as you! I am 
growing bolder, I think, but still I never could, 
I know, be so firm in speaking it as you are. 
It seems natural to you." 

"It is not natural^ Mary, and without the 
grace of God, we cannot be kept from any sin 
in times of great temptation ; but I believe 
some, from want of early training, are far 
more tempted to practise concealment than 
others. I have been encouraged from my 
childhood to speak the truth, but don't sup- 



CHAEITY HOPETH ALL THINGS. 159 



pose that I never felt any disposition to do 
otherwise. The strongest as well as the weak- 
est in this respect need help of God. Three 
months ago, Mary, you would have told mother, 
when reproved as you were this morning, for 
stopping out so long on an errand, that you 
were kept at the shop, or that you forgot some- 
thing and had to go back, but you told the 
truth, that you had gossipped with an acquaint- 
ance. Take courage then, we must all have 
our beginnings, and there is nothing that grows 
stronger by care, nothing that does more credit 
to cultivation and training, than Truth,''' 

Here we will leave Mary Marshall, not in a 
very interesting or sentimental employment, 
as some of my readers may think, cutting out 
a brother's shirt, and giving counsel to her 
mother's housemaid; but these were in the 
discharge of present duties and preparation 
for future and more extensive usefulness. 
Patient continuance in luell doing was her 
great aim. It is certain that Mary Marshall, 
and those of Mary Marshall's character, will 
make as good wives as they have made daugh- 
ters, sisters, and friends. 

May I hope that none of my young readers 
will forget the contrast between the characters 
of Ellen and Annie Norris and Mary Marshall? 



160 TRUTH IS EVERY THING. 

Endowed by nature with sweet and amiable 
dispositions, with gentle manners and excellent 
abilities, what should have hindered Ellen and 
Annie from being useful and beloved members 
of society? What, but the absence of that 
jewel which, early in life, the sisters cast away 
as a thing of little worth, and which in after- 
years they vainly sought to call their own? 
But although they were still courted by a few, 
and liked by others who did not perceive their 
deficiency, they were daily realizing the truth, 
of Mary's fear, expressed in her last visit to 
them — ^^You will have but few real friends/' 
They may have seen their delinquencies, and 
repented of them, and sought and obtained 
forgiveness through the mercy of God in Christ ; 
but they must ever regret that in the freshness 
and beauty of youth they had not submitted 
themselves to Him, who would have graciously 
led them into the paths of truth and holiness, 
for his name's sake. 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Nov. 2005 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN PAPER PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



